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HEARTS AND FACES 



/ 

HEARTS & FACES 

BY JOHN MURRAY GIBBON 




NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY 
LONDON : JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD : MCMXVI 






Copyright, 1916, by 

JOHN LANE COMPANY 


/ 



Press of 
J. J. Little & Ives Company 
New York, U.S.A. 


27 992 

AY -8 1916 


■a. _ 




\ 


TO 

“NANCY” 

















































































I 


















I 












, t 







CONTENTS 




CHAPTER 

I 

MacGillivray’s Court 


• 



PAGE 

9 

II 

The English Set 


• 



15 

III 

Early Days at Aberdeen 


• 



22 

IV 

The Football Match 


• 



30 

V 

Nathaniel Reid, Artist . 


• 



34 

VI 

A Lecture on Women 


• 



40 

VII 

The Parting of the Ways 

• 

• 



46 

VIII 

London .... 

• 




53 

IX 

Homesick .... 

• 




66 

X 

Mrs. Middleton’s Portrait 





74 

XI 

The Cliffs at Dunnottar 





82 

XII 

Ravin, Artist . 





90 

XIII 

The Model at the Langham 





103 

XIV 

One More Unfortunate . 





109 

XV 

Ethel Swallow 





113 

XVI 

Explanations . 





122 

XVII 

A Letter from Paris 





131 

XVIII 

The World, the Flesh and the Devil 



135 

XIX 

The Temptation of Miss Marriott 




141 

XX 

Disheartened . 





153 

XXI 

Varnishing Day 



• 


156 

XXII 

On the Ladder of Fame . 



• 


163 

XXIII 

Two Unexpected Interviews 



• 


181 

XXIV 

Ethel Again 





191 

XXV 

Pulling the Wires . 





195 

XXVI 

The First Night 





205 

XXVII 

Nerves .... 



. 

. 

214 


7 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

XXVIII 

Nathaniel Reid to the Rescue 




PAGE 

219 

XXIX 

Paris .... 





226 

XXX 

Portrait of the Artist 




. 

235 

XXXI 

Return to Nature 




. 

239 

XXXII 

Claire .... 




. 

243 

XXXIII 

Moths .... 




. 

248 

XXXIV 

Rapprochement 




. 

257 

XXXV 

Recognition . 




. 

262 

XXXVI 

Passion-Flowers . 




. 

265 

XXXVII 

Marlotte and Barbizon 




. 

273 

XXXVIII 

The Lost Birthright . 




. 

279 

XXXIX 

The Picture in the Salon 




. 

286 

XL 

Carnival at Vienna 




. 

289 

XLI 

Under Italian Skies 




. 

295 

XLII 

On the Trail 




. 

301 

XLIII 

A Dangerous Game 




. 

308 

XLIV 

At Bay 




. 

314 

XLV 

“Dark and True and Tender” 



. 

318 

XLVI 

Rescue 




. 

321 

XLVII 

Forgiven 




. 

328 

XLVIII 

A Corner in Soho 




. 

332 

XLIX 

In the Promenade 




. 

336 

L 

The Last Dance . 




. 

340 

LI 

An Epitaph . 




. 

344 

LII 

Dramatic Justice . 

• > 



. 

347 


HEARTS AND FACES 


CHAPTER I 


macgillivray’s court 

T HE Professor began by calling over his humdrum 
roll-call in the usual alphabetical order. 

“George Grange ?” 

“Adsum” 

“Adam Grant?” 

No answer. Then from somewhere: 

“Abest” 

“Adam Grant, Craigellachie ?” 

“What a mouthfu’ !” from the back of the class-room. 
A Celtic giant had hitherto intervened between George 
Grange and the rest of his bench. The giant’s absence on 
this occasion showed this Adam Grant, of Craigellachie, a 
country lad, all sunburn and elbows over the desk in front 
of him. As he took down his notes of the lecture, Adam’s 
lips worked fantastically up and down. 

At the end of the eighties, one did not need introduc- 
tions at King’s College, Aberdeen. During the daily fights 
between the Bajans — as the first-year students were 
called — and the second-year Semis, Adam Grant and 
George Grange, both fresh to college, became brothers in 
affliction, captives together, and bumped fraternally as 
they were lifted along and “passed up,” according to the 
student custom, from desk to desk in the enemy’s class- 
room. George stopped the flow of blood from Adam’s 
nose, and Adam pinned up George’s tattered college gown. 


IO 


HEARTS AND FACES 


“If ye’ll come to my digs, I’ll get ye sewn up, and may- 
be then we can dae a bit Euripides thegither,” said Adam 
that day, as they escaped from a particularly vigorous 
mishandling. 

Agreed, and at midday the two stalked stolidly together 
up the Spital Brae. 

They were rough raw lads in those days at King’s Col- 
lege. Your Englishman might say that they should still 
have been at school and that they were not ripe for student 
freedom. Perhaps they were a thought unbridled, but 
the stem dour face of poverty kept most of them upon 
the narrow path. Their arrogant youth worked itself out 
in horseplay and hard work. Determination to get on was 
the spirit of the most of them. Overhead the beautiful 
spider crown of King’s ever reminded them of the great 
past, of the men who had gone out from the North to leave 
their mark upon the world: philosophers and men of 
action, teachers and preachers and pioneers and governors 
throughout the Empire. They tramped each morning to 
their lectures fiery with hope, and red-hot with ambition 
they returned to read at home. 

“Ye’ll no be wantin’ dinner, I’m thinkin’,” said Adam 
after a while, “for we’ve naethin’ to offer. We jist hae 
parritch the morn, an’ a wee bite fish at nicht.” 

“Fine for me,” answered George. “We’ll have of Heli- 
con our fill.” 

As they entered the street known as the Gallowgate, they 
overtook a delicate youth, Jimmie Wilson, the son of a 
small shop-keeper at Craigellachie and Adam’s stable-mate. 
Jimmie and Adam had both won bursaries or scholarships 
of £15, and on this meant to pay their College fees and live 
through the five months of the Winter Session. Even in 
Aberdeen this was bedrock economy. 

Three abreast found walking on the road a perilous 
journey. Wordie’s lorries rattled them on to the pave- 
ment, or else it was a coal-cart. Here a fish-wife, shawled 
in tartan, heralded her “Herrin’, fresh herrin’, five a peeny.” 
Bare-legged bairns ran between their legs in blind games; 


MACGILLIVRAY’S COURT 


ii 


then catching sight of the students’ scarlet gowns ran 
shrilly after them crying, “Buttery Willie Collie!” Why 
Willie Collie was “buttery” is a problem that still puzzles 
the historian, but so long as students wear red gowns in 
Aberdeen, so long will rude little boys shout out this 
derisive name. 

Braw lassies bantered Adam’s ruddy cheeks in dialect 
broader than his own, till at last they were glad to reach 
even the dismal corner of MacGillivray’s Court, where 
Adam and Jimmie shared half a kitchen. 

“Ye munna mind Mrs. Gregor, the wumman that keeps 
us,” said Adam as they approached the Court. “She jist 
glories in unnecessary self-sacrifice. But she’ll sew up yer 
gown fine.” 

Of all the Courts in the Gallowgate, MacGillivray’s 
Court had what Adam called “the most refined stink.” 
Fragrant with dried fish and Mrs. Gibb’s washing, it 
flaunted various notes of colour provided by the petticoats, 
chemises and other un-namable underclothes which 
formed Mrs. Gibb’s stock-in-trade. The steam that Mrs. 
Gibb failed to swallow emerged from her window, filling the 
Court with an odour which could easily be distinguished 
from that at the entrance. In the thick wall of the arch 
through which one reached the Court was a door, leading 
to inner darkness. Darkness inhabited, however, for it 
emitted snores; also an aroma as of dead mice. 

“That’s the scafifie,” explained Adam. 

“The scaffie?” 

“Aye, the scavenger, as you fowk ca’ him. But it’s his 
wife that’s drunk.” 

Mrs. Gibb’s window was beyond the house where Adam 
lodged. He was on a first floor, reached by a flight of 
stone-steps from the pavement itself. Adam mounted 
slowly and noisily to warn Mrs. Gregor of their approach, 
enabling George to take still further stock of the place. 

One fair picture in this frame of squalor. A little mite 
of two years old was being taught to walk by six or seven 
other mites barely older than herself. Her stumpy, totter- 


12 


HEARTS AND FACES 


ing legs were almost hidden by her red frock, but not so the 
yellow curls which danced gaily over her tent face. Watch- 
ing her was an unwieldy woman, narrowing the Court with 
her vast bulk. At last the fat, motherly heart bubbled 
over. 

“Eh, whit bonny !” she cried, and, gathering the little 
one up in her arms, she kissed her again and again. 

“Pit the bairns oot,” said Adam, as they entered a room 
noisy with children. “We’re for work.” 

“Aye, an I’ll pit mysel’ oot as well, if that’ll help,” said 
a melancholy person in petticoats who was evidently the 
landlady, Mrs. Gregor. 

“Na, na, I want ye to sew up this chap’s gown.” 

“Wad he tak’ a glass o’ milk, like? There’s some I got 
for the bairns’ tea, but they can dae fine withoot.” 

“Na, na,” said Adam, winking ’solemnly at George. 
“He drinks naethin’ less than champagne. Now, wum- 
man, haud yer jaw! We maun hae quiet.” 

The room that served these worthies from Craigellachie 
as study, parlour and bedroom, also sufficed as kitchen, 
nursery and dining-room for Mrs. Gregor and her six chil- 
dren. The double-bed did not occupy more than a quarter 
of the space, so there was really no need for Mrs. Gregor 
to knock against either the table or the two wooden chairs. 
Considering the outside of the house, the room was sur- 
prisingly large, though hardly an ideal place for study. 
Mrs. Gregor commenced to sew, standing near the window 
for the light, while Adam perched himself on the bed, sav- 
ing dispute about the chairs. 

“Let’s dae a bit o’ the Alcestis /’ he said. “Euripides is 
fine and simple.” 

They took it in turns to read and translate, the other two 
commenting and criticising. Time passed quickly enough, 
but George felt his attention distracted by such surround- 
ings. Adam was reading, and they had come to the fare- 
well scene between Alcestis and Admetus. Adam plunged 
through the translation as if he were at a ploughing' 
match. 


MACGILLIVRAY’S COURT 


13 

“*And lof” he was translating, “‘my eye darkens and 
grows heavy!” 

“What do you think of Browning's rendering?" said 
George. “He puts it like this : ‘And truly the dimmed eye 
draws earthward now! ” 

“No bad,” said Adam. “Weel then, 7 am lost if you 
do not leave me, woman’ — God, wumman, what are ye 
haverin' at?” 

George started, and then saw that this was not meant as 
a variant translation, but an address to Mrs. Gregor. The 
latter was muttering at the window. 

“Law, Mr. Adam!” she said, “I was jist lookin' oot. If 
iver I saw death, it’s on the face of that Mrs. Purdie's bairn. 
God behear us, I maun see to it.” 

“Weel, weel, see to it. 7 am lost!” he repeated, “‘if 
indeed you leave me, woman! ” 

“‘Wife’ or ‘lady!” suggested Jimmie Wilson. 

‘“Landlady!” said Adam, scowling at the retreating 
figure of Mrs. Gregor. “To continue, ‘Speak of me as 
nothing, for I no longer am! Then says Admetus, ‘ Lift 
up thy countenance, do not leave thy children ! ” 

By this time Mrs. Gregor had come back, bearing in her 
arms the sick baby she had seen. A bloodshot creature 
stumbled after her, and Adam for a moment looked up 
angrily. 

“ ‘Not willingly indeed / ” he growled. 

But George lost the rest of the translation in the living 
tragedy. Mrs. Gregor had taken the baby to the fire, and 
was trying to warm its poor white feet. . 

“Gie me my bairn,” the mother was sobbing. “It’s nae 
but a wee bit cauld.” 

“Na, she's mair nor cauld. She has death in her face.” 

“ ‘Lift your eyes! ” came the voice of the translator. 

A hoarse whisper, “Gie me my bairn — she's mine.” 

“‘I am no more!” 

“God! she's deein'.” 

“God! she's mine!” 

“‘What doest thou ? Dost thou leave me?’” 


14 


HEARTS AND FACES 


“Oh me! Oh me!” 

“ ‘ Farewell ! — I am lost in misery — God, wumman, what- 
iver are ye daein’. That’s the bed.” 

“Aye, an’ that’s a bairn that’s deem’,” said Mrs. Gregor, 
as she wrapped the little bundle in the blankets. 

“Weel, it’s no gaun to dee in my bed. It’s me that 
sleeps there,” said Adam pushing her roughly back. 

“Gie me my bairn,” said the haggard mother. The 
tears had furrowed the dirt beneath her cheekbones, and if 
she had a husband, it must have been he who bashed her 
front teeth out. Hers was a face to hit at. 

George could stand it no longer. Catching up his gown 
and his books, he hurried out. 


CHAPTER II 


THE ENGLISH SET 

G EORGE sickened as he walked along, remembering 
that miserable slum. Over and over again the 
sordid picture passed before him, blinding him to 
everything else. Adam Grant was a brute! Of 
what use was the study of the “Humanities,” if the soul of 
the student was left inhuman ? 

Although he lived in a city where a pound a week was 
affluence, this was the first time that George came face to 
face with real poverty. The urchins that played about the 
gutters, ran bare-foot all the summer, but bare feet were so 
common that they seemed quite natural. Down at the 
Castlegate he once had heard a Socialist talk about the down- 
trodden masses, but it never occurred to George that these 
masses really existed, or rather barely existed, just a few 
streets off. These things might be true of London slums, 
but the Aberdeen that he knew was a middle-class city of 
more or less respectable shopkeepers and professional men, 
some worse off than others but all a world apart from this 
underworld of squalor. A pound a week went a long way 
when herrings were five a penny. There were beggars of 
course, but some of these were reputed rich, such as Old 
Thursday, the organ-grinder, said to be worth a thousand 
pounds. But this verminous warren — ugh! 

The Gallowgate itself, being a thoroughfare, was wider 
than the Courts on either side of it, but it was a sordid street 
with the same squalid atmosphere. Life was here in rags 
and dirty faces, rough of the tongue and brutalised by cheap 
drink. Although he had often traversed it, George realised 
for the first time all its wretchedness. How different must 

15 


i6 


HEARTS AND’ FACES 


be the sunny skies of Greece and Rome ! Yet even Imperial 
Rome had such foul passages, as Juvenal could tell him. 

What could he do ? How helpless he was ! Had he been 
a medical he might have known of something for that dying 
child. As it was, he could just pass on. 

It was not long before he came to Marischal College, that 
part of the University at which medicine is taught. A nar- 
row gate led into a wide quadrangle, where students, 
older and a thought more serious than the boys at King’s, 
crossed to and fro to their various classes. They wore no 
scarlet gown, but their notebooks gave them the academic 
touch. 

A number of notices were pinned up on a board inside a 
cage, and as George read these he wondered whether he was 
wise in not going in for medicine. His Greek and Latin led 
to — what? A schoolmastership perhaps. All his life was 
like to be spent on books, in a world of the dead, while 
here all round him was the world of the living. 

It must be a fine thing to be a doctor, to be able to give 
health to the sick. Were he to take his M.D. he could give 
his life up to a practice in such slums as those around the 
Gallo wgate. He had an income of his own, and had no need 
of fees. Would it not be fine to be known as the poor man’s 
doctor, working without reward in those overcrowded alleys, 
beloved by all and dying at last, a hero and a martyr, smit- 
ten down by diphtheria caught from some fever-stricken 
patient ? George pictured himself lying in the hospital with 
nurses round his bed, whispering to themselves, and his 
throat gulped as he imagined the sermons that would be 
preached and the eloquent obituary that would appear in the 
Journal and the Free Press. 

But as he turned again into the street, a breath of filthy 
air from an open door brought him back to the present, and 
he realised that he was not yet a hero. Horrible smell! 
Could he ever again go into such a loathsome air as that 
of MacGillivray’s Court? 

In Union Street the shrill east wind nipped the passers-by 
and quickened every step. It blew the dreams out of 


THE ENGLISH SET 


1 7 


George’s brain and made his lungs so sore that he feared 
he had caught a chill. It was wise to shake this off with 
a glass of brandy. 

The saloon he entered was noisy with the so-called Eng- 
lish set at Aberdeen, medical students sent to this northern 
University in the expectation of a cheap and easy degree. 
Not so easy for some of them, since the Professor whose 
door-knocker they tore off on uproarious nights paid his 
probable tormentors back by “ploughing” them at their 
examinations. Cheap it certainly was, especially if one did 
not pay one’s debts. That was why the Englishmen were 
not favourites in the town. 

At this date it was modish to wear knickerbockers and 
that form of gaiter known as “spats,” a covering of the leg 
which is twice blessed, for it suggests the country gentle- 
man and conceals the thinness of the calf. 

The saloon habit in this brave town was not confined to 
Englishmen, but this particular ' saloon was the English- 
men’s resort, the natives favouring a less conspicuous stage 
for their potations. The true born Aberdonian likes tradi- 
tion, and when he drinks he is inclined to drink on the 
eastern and older side of Union Bridge. 

Union Bridge ! How many tragedies and comedies have 
crowned your single span! The street narrowed when it 
topped your arch, for the councillors who built you loved 
economy, and a little jostling mattered less if it meant a 
bawbee more in each ratepayer’s pocket. You were nar- 
rowest on Sundays, when those trim troops of church-goers 
smiled to themselves on their way to their respective pulpits 
— the East Kirk and the West Kirk, the Free and the 
Established — each with its hour and a half’s entertainment 
for a penny in the plate. You were perhaps broadest when 
the night had thrown its cover over staggering steps or a 
nod to a giggling girl. Underneath your passage of night 
and day was the traffic of the trains, and on your granite 
blocks the occasional rumble of Bain’s old cabs. You were 
the meeting place and the dividing place of East and West, 
of work and leisure. 


i8 


HEARTS AND FACES 


The faces round the bar were more or less familiar, but 
none were well enough known for George to greet. Most 
familiar was a heavy- jawed, clean-shaven man whose 
curious limping gait had often caught his eye. It was a 
“You be damned” sort of strut which proclaimed this 
biped as of conscious birth. George had heard him named 
as Wolseley Greville, and had connected with him a reputa- 
tion which fitted that handsome, dissipated face. 

Among companions Greville was less patronising, indeed 
there were some who thought him low. His risky stories 
and his readiness to stand a drink brought him easy friend- 
ship. Where the money came from, no one knew. 

As George came in, they were laughing at some story 
Greville had related. 

“You’re a devil of a chap!” said one. “And now your 
latest conquest.” 

“Impossible, my dear fellow. That is really private.” 

“Rot! Out with it.” 

“Brandy, please,” said George to the barmaid, who was 
absorbed in Greville. 

“Well, if I must — but you won’t tell?” Greville stroked 
his chin conceitedly. “You know little Molly Arnold with 
the golden hair and blue eyes, the dear?” 

George had not meant to listen, but this name was 
familiar. The girl in question lived in the next street to 
his. That very morning he had seen her tripping past his 
window. 

“Well,” continued Greville, “I’ve found her out. Her 
mother keeps what are known as ‘digs’ in Crown Street.” 

“Never!” 

“Yes, and I now occupy these digs. Mere chance, or 
rather a divine Providence. I saw a notice of ‘Apart- 
ments’ as I looked for rooms this session. I knocked — 
and there was my fairy ” 

“And her mother,” interjected a thick-set, heavy-eyed 
fellow who went by the nickname of Browser. 

“And her mother, you bet. Such a mother! Well, I 
settled down to work ” 


THE ENGLISH SET 


19 


“Off the whisky.” 

“Shut up, Browser. I settled down with the best in- 
tentions, but very soon I shut my books. I had made a 
discovery. The girl, as you know, is pretty — dresses like 
a lady — glorious ” 

“Beer,” growled Browser. 

“So I never told any one about this, especially Browser, 
who would have tried to cut me out. Well, I discovered 
that this charming creature, who was my landlady’s daugh- 
ter, was indeed — a landlady’s daughter. When I was out, 
she read my letters. I found the prints of her fairy fingers 
on my private correspondence — you know that correspon- 
dence. What was more, the weekly bill — you know that 
weekly bill — which I really do pay at the beginning of the 
session, went up and up. I had chicken one day for dinner 
and ate a wing. The next day I saw no chicken and 
asked why. 'Mother made it into soup/ said the darling, 
without a blush. You know that chicken soup. I said 
nothing, but I made up my mind to get even.” 

Greville paused. The girl at the bar pushed over “the 
usual.” 

“I became sweeter than ever to the darling, and only 
last week, my dear fellows, I consoled myself for 
the vanished chicken with a much more delicious mor- 
sel.” 

The leer that accompanied the words made it only too 
evident what he meant. Some one sniggered, and the rest 
followed suit. 

George felt the blood rush to his face. 

Then a tall man, who stood a little apart, stepped up to 
Greville. 

“You low-down cad,” he said. 

Greville turned black with fury. He was no coward. 

“What do you mean?” he hissed, and flung himself on 
the other. 

In a moment he was hurled back against the bar. 

“If you weren’t already crawling with disease,” sneered 
the tall man, “I’d smash your dirty face.” 


20 


HEARTS AND FACES 


By this time the landlord had heard the noise of the 
scuffle and rushed in. 

“Stop there !” he cried. “Out you go, both of you.” 

“He began it,” panted Greville. 

“The cur is right,” said the tall man coolly. “Sorry, 
Jim, I don’t want to get you into trouble.” 

So saying he walked quietly out. 

“Who is that?” said every one at once. 

“That’s young Mr. Sands, just back from China, the 
tailor’s son.” 

“The tailor’s son!” 

A yell of execration followed. They all claimed to be 
“gentlemen.” 

“Why,” said Browser, “he lives at Peterfield. Let’s smash 
his windows.” 

“Better be careful, Browser,” said another. “Have you 
paid his father’s bill?” 

“Aye,” said the landlord, “and his father’s on the bench. 
Be good, boys, and don’t get me into trouble with those 
baillies.” 

Turning the affair into a laugh, he retired into his back 
parlour. 

“Surely,” said some one, “this man Sands plays foot- 
ball. He’s a Nomad.” 

“Don’t Nomads play the Varsity to-morrow?” 

“The very thing,” said Greville. “We’ll maim him.” 

“Who are playing?” 

Three of those present had been selected for the team. 
And so, with another drink all round for luck, they tumbled 
boisterously out of the bar, Greville last of all, limping 
heavily. Sands had shaken him severely. 

“Nice lot they are!” said the landlord, following them 
out. “As for that Greville ” 

“My!” said the girl in the bar, “but ain’t he got 
money !” 

George sauntered back to his lodgings thinking it all 
over. He had forgotten the dying slum child in this later 
tragedy. How pitiable it was! Molly Arnold was so 


THE ENGLISH SET 


21 


pretty, and always looked sweet and innocent. The whole 
story was sordid, and yet it was so possible. “ A delicious 
morsel/’ and this devil had deliberately ruined her. What 
help for her now? 

“A landlady’s daughter.” 

He knew the type. 

Hell! 

It was impossible to work. 


CHAPTER III 


EARLY DAYS AT ABERDEEN 


I T was at a bazaar that George had first very nearly 
got to know this Molly Arnold. 

Bazaars are not exclusive to Aberdeen, but they 
are certainly the very essence of its being. For in 
this clean, bustling city, the most inobservant stranger 
must notice the overflow of churches, not only on a Sun- 
day, when streets are thronged with the devout, but every 
day in the week as well. And if he be at all inquisitive, 
he will surely find that where there is a church there is a 
debt, and where there is a debt sooner or later there must 
be a bazaar, for which young, middle-aged and grey-haired 
conspire together to sew, knit or otherwise concoct count- 
less articles of more or less vertu, which are purchased 
liberally for the glory of God by members of the congrega- 
tion and their friends. 

George had once been inveigled into such by a stall- 
holding relative, and after shedding much good silver upon 
things he had no earthly use for, he met the golden- 
haired Molly, also a stallholder, who offered him a ball 
of rosy shaving paper at “a shilling to you.” She and 
the rosy ball were both irresistible, and as the coin changed 
hands she smiled upon him, and his heart went pit-a-pat 
after her all the rest of that evening and for many evenings 
after. He would have begged acquaintance of her there 
and then in spite of natural shyness, had not those very 
shaving-balls been the triumph of the whole bazaar. 
Every man must have one, and Molly and her golden hair 
were never to be caught for any kind of introduction ex- 
cept the exchange of cash. 


22 


EARLY DAYS AT ABERDEEN 


23 


Sometimes thereafter he attended her church, seeking a 
remote and uncomfortable pew from which he could watch 
her through his fingers at the prayers without any one 
suspecting his devotion. But her delight in church must 
have been but lukewarm, for on several occasions he had 
to sit through a sermon an hour long without a sight of 
her, she being busy at home reading more cheerful literature 
than the Book of Job or the Epistle to the Galatians. 
Three Sundays running found him thus deceived, and 
henceforth he contented himself with long, circuitous walks 
which somehow included the passage of her street and a 
nervous glance at her window. The shaving-ball itself 
had for a while been considered too sacred to mutilate for 
its original purpose, but only for a while, for even at seven- 
teen the lovesick swain has lucid intervals. 

Yet surely it would not have been so difficult to win 
acquaintance. She was not stand-offish, as he could see — 
indeed was one of those thirty-three thousand, half the 
female population, who on a Saturday night paraded 
Union Street and giggled along the granite pavements 
with another girl on each arm and every man in her eye. 
Those thirty-three thousand do not really mean mischief. 
They are of the good city of Aberdeen and not of Picca- 
dilly, and what down South would be the downward path, 
up North is just high spirits. But even so, and even 
though he knew that he had only to be bold, he dared 
not. 

The Aberdonian is reckoned the hardest-headed of all 
the Scots, not truly, but because the successful have 
modestly ascribed their virtues to their clan. The failures, 
such as George Grange’s father, are forgotten. An ami- 
able fool, generous beyond his means, the elder Grange 
pottered through life in a lawyer’s office which mismanaged 
the affairs of its clients. William Grange’s hobby was 
the pedigree through which he traced a seventh cousin- 
ship with an earl. This nobleman had spent the money 
gained by City swindles in turning populous valleys into 
desolate deer forests, parading at Highland gatherings his 


24 


HEARTS AND FACES 


kilted spindles and bonneted bald head. But to William 
Grange he was always a hero and a seventh cousin. 

Mrs. Grange was another type familiar to the Granite 
City — the wife who dresses beyond her allowance. Like 
many of her gossips, she supplemented her income by 
forgetting to forward the school-fees of her children. Ex- 
posure came when the leading private school went bank- 
rupt. The Court called in the arrears, and down went the 
Church collections. 

William Grange was an honest fool. When he had 
found out his wife’s deception, he welcomed a death which 
left her the legacy of pedigree and poverty. Mrs. Grange, 
for her part, wasted no vain regrets. Within a year she 
owned more purple, more fine linen, and another husband, 
whose purse made up for his appearance. There were 
unkind rumours of earlier acquaintance, for the unpaid 
school-fees could hardly have covered her old milliner’s 
bills. But if these tales were true, all the more dramatic 
justice in her death. She died in childbirth. 

Never mind the name of her second husband. He 
makes a graceful exit from this story by settling £200 a 
year on George, now left to his own devices. 

George was by now seventeen. Had he been trained 
at the Grammar School his reading would have been less 
erratic, and he might have made more friends; but a 
private school had been his fate. Here the teaching was 
irregular for the reason that the underpaid masters were 
for ever quitting their employer. George was in this way 
free to follow unfettered tastes, to sip, here and there, a 
little Latin, a little Greek, a little French, a little German, 
more for the poetry than for the prose of every literature. 
The only prose that gripped him was the prose of Balzac, 
of Flaubert and of Guy de Maupassant — found on his 
mother’s book-shelves — and here it was the life that took 
his fancy, not the niceties of style. 

Although in this way he had come to have a knowledge 
of life, it was only a book-knowledge. It must be granted 
to the credit of that northern city that the main streets 


EARLY DAYS AT ABERDEEN 


25 


flaunted very little other real vice than drunkenness. The 
thirty-three thousand girls, of whom Molly Arnold was 
one, were for the most part giddy innocents who required a 
real Don Juan to betray them. Don Juan George was not, 
although he loved his Byron and dreamed the voluptuous 
delights of all such heroes. In a certain quaint old diction- 
ary of classical mythology he had solved a little of the 
mystery of sex, but through fatal shyness was unable even 
to stammer a good night to the living Venus. Fortunate 
perhaps for George, for he would have probably been 
snubbed. 

The red-haired Aphrodite of his clime had little use for 
one who looked so like a milksop. She was a vigorous 
goddess, ruddy-cheeked herself with the east wind, admirer 
of impudence and muscle. Her prithee-why-so-pale-fond 
lover must remain willynilly an ascetic. Perhaps she might 
have been softened at the shine of gold. But George had 
a thrifty purse. His mother, in her luscious finery, had 
taught him to fear God and do without pocket-money. 
Now he had his own income, but he had acquired the 
habit of the narrow path. And after all he was not un- 
healthily unclean. 

Byron was his favourite author, Byron whose old house 
in Broad Street he never passed without a thrill. Once a 
week he walked to the ancient Brig o’ Balgownie, never 
crossed without his remembering the little club-footed lad 
of curly locks and tiny ears, who had timorously looked 
this way and that for the “mare’s ae foal” which presaged 
the bridge’s ruin. Byron was an only son, and it is said 
that the old spell haunted him: 

“Brig o’ Balgownie, wight’s your wa’ 

Wi’ a wife’s ae son and a mare’s ae foal 
Doun sail ye fa’.” 

From such a shrinking childhood had grown the poet of 
revolution. Wondering if such might be his own future, 
George used to gaze into the depths beneath the arched 
shadow of the bridge — unfathomable they were said to be — 


26 HEARTS AND FACES 

and let the fancy roam till the racing heart recalled 
him. 

And then he dreamed dreams, writing the poetry one 
writes at seventeen. Molly Arnold with her golden hair 
had been his Beatrice. 

His first home had been in the secluded quietness of Dee 
Street, but his mother on her second marriage sniffed at 
any neighbourhood that was not near the more fashionable 
Queen’s Cross. With her death came independence, and 
George returned to the old street, migrating discontentedly 
from one lodging to another. Little things decided the 
change: a succession of bad eggs, an harmonium, a land- 
lady who would not cook on Sundays. The rooms to which 
at last he settled down pleased him because of their bare- 
ness. The front room had no cheap and tawdry chintzes 
to disturb his nerves. There were no texts saying in pink 
that “God is Love,” or in purple that “We are but Little 
Children Weak.” 

The bare walls, which had hitherto deprived the landlady 
of many a prospective lodger, appealed to George. He was 
able to decorate them with an eye-high border of his own 
device, consisting of wood engravings from old numbers 
of “Good Words,” “The Leisure Hour” and “Once a 
Week,” pictures that had delighted his solitary childhood 
in the lumber-room of his parents’ house. The landlady, 
with a view to cleanliness, had abjured the usual wall-paper 
with the usual floral design, confining herself to a washable 
distemper of neutral grey. The border of engravings puz- 
zled her, but she felt a sneaking respect for a lodger who, 
like herself, had dared to be original. The only other 
ornament was made up from a more famous frieze, that of 
the Parthenon. Five large platinotypes from the Northern 
section had been mounted by George on a long piece of 
cardboard and bent into a circle. This was his table centre- 
piece. Wherever he sat, he could see the rhythm of that 
perfect cavalcade. 

In the corner to the right of the window was his book- 
case, with shelves arranged according to the colour of the 


EARLY DAYS AT ABERDEEN 


27 


bindings, not the contents. One comfortable chair dozed 
before the fire, with a wooden stool to put one’s feet 
on. On a hook beside the fireplace hung his scarlet 
gown. 

George had matriculated at the University simply be- 
cause he was seventeen. That is the age decreed by Heaven 
for the youth of Aberdeen as ripe for higher things. 
Cleverer schoolmates had won the bursaries bequeathed to 
help poor students and entrusted to the discretion of a 
Senatus. The dullards had drifted into business or more 
gentlemanly sloth. King’s College certainly suited George’s 
purse. He was affluent there, but the poverty of those 
who were not of his class was only equalled by their pride, 
and George remained an outsider. Adam Grant spoke to 
him only once after that memorable day with Euripides. 
It was on the following Monday, and the Celtic giant still 
absent from the class. The Professor had not yet come 
in, and the more lusty lungs were filling time with the 
harmonious strains of the “Old Hundredth.” Adam leaned 
over to George. 

“What made ye scoot like yon?” he asked. 

“Nothing,” stammered George. “Only that child ” 

“Eh, man!” said Adam. “Ye’re a puir thing.” Then 
turned his back on him. 

The snarl went home. A poor thing indeed! Why 
could he not howl with these barbarians? 

Had George played better football, he might have lived 
a healthier life. He had no fear of bruises, but he was a 
muff at games. 

There were of course the “grinders,” whose pale faces 
mirrored midnight oil, and George was envious of even 
their acquaintance; but their company was books. Some 
indeed were said to read their sixteen hours a day. George 
had a headache after six. Still, he seemed to have a knack 
of translation. Perhaps he would enlarge respect at the 
next examinations. 

Such conditions herded him more and more into himself. 
His slender figure became familiar by the sea on the edge 


28 


HEARTS AND, FACES 


of Balgownie Links, or stooping over the catalogue in the 
Library at King’s. As yet his pleasure in the open air was 
vague. If he felt the tenderness of atmosphere, he would 
fit the mood to verse. 

What his ultimate career should be still troubled George. 
Sometimes he thought to write books, but the Fates had 
hitherto shone unkindly on his literary effort. Occasionally 
verses travelled to a London paper, only to re-travel with 
the usual regrets from the Olympian editor. The local 
comic paper had been equally unsympathetic. 

Ambition was thus snailed within its shell. 

George had some relatives, of course, in a city of such 
generous families, but except for casual greetings in the 
street, he hardly spoke to them. He knew they called him 
boorish for not visiting, but gradually he assumed and 
lived up to the old motto of Earl Marischal that hangs in 
Marischal College: 

THEY HAIF SAID. QUHAT SAYE THEY? 
LAT YAME SAYE. 

Let them say, indeed! 

That haunting motto coloured the fancied slights from 
fellow students as shy and unpolished as himself. After 
all, what mattered it if they preferred another’s company, 
and perhaps laughed at him behind his back? 

Let them laugh! 

“They haif said. Quhat saye they?” the words shaped 
every mood. When he mooned about in lovesick ado- 
lescence, dreaming of the golden-haired enchantress, 
whose windows he would pass shamefacedly by night, 
the words stepped out with him upon the granite pave- 
ments : 

“They haif said. Quhat saye they? Lat yame saye!” 

In such a mood he wrote a sonnet which in due course 
returned from the usual editor — not much of a son- 
net, perhaps, but worth giving here as a record of his 
fancy : 


EARLY DAYS AT ABERDEEN 29 

They Haif Said. Quhat Saye They ? Lat Yame Saye. 

They say — what say they? — that a heart of gold 
Is naught but vain and perishable ware, 

And true love passes as a sudden air, 

Warm for an hour, and in an hour run cold. 

Dear Heart ! the very memory we hold 
Of Eden, and of all the frangrance there 
When we were young and you were very fair — 
That too must death within his Shadow fold. 

What say they? What if all our love be vain. 

And all our kisses with the night be blown 
Into oblivion to the Unknown Way ! 

Give me your lips, give me your lips again 
And yet again, until the Way be shown! 

And till the Night enfoldeth, let them say. 

One College Society, the Literary, blossomed an oasis in 
his desert. Here were banquets with the gods, and here 
new planets swam into his ken. Oh, that glorious night 
with Rossetti, and, oh, the resonant voice that half chanted 
the sonnet on a picture by Giorgione: 

“Water, for anguish of the solstice — nay, 

But dip the vessel slowly — nay, but lean 

And hark how at its verge the wave sighs in 

Reluctant.” 

George was furious next day when no reproduction of 
the picture could be found in any book in all the Library. 

Sentiment is hard to kill at seventeen. However much 
George must believe the story he had overheard of Molly 
Arnold, still he remembered that she was fair. Pity and 
curiosity piled up fresh fuel for the romance that truth 
had damped, and, if ever he felt tired of books and turned 
out any night for a breath of air, his steps were drawn to 
the neighbouring Crown Street, and his eyes involuntarily 
lifted to her familiar window. A shadow fell upon the 
blind, the shadow of the Lady Might-Have-Been. So he 
rhymed her in many a rondeau, many a villanelle. 


CHAPTER IV 


THE FOOTBALL MATCH 

F OOTBALL was not a game at which George shone, 
and so when Saturday came round he found him- 
self unpicked for any side, and therefore at a loose 
end. This indeed caused him small regret, for 
he wished to see the match between the Varsity and 
Nomads with the sequel of that row between Sands, the 
tailor’s son, and the Englishman in the bar. 

Life cannot make us anything but tamed barbarians. 
If we ourselves no longer fight, we still are whole-souled 
lookers-on, if only to make sure the fight is fair. Now 
between the Varsity and Nomad football clubs there was at 
this time furious rivalry, and the likelihood of rough play 
no doubt added to the crowd of lookers-on. A fine after- 
noon helped to fill the ground at King’s still further, and 
when the whistle blew you could see half young Aberdeen 
behind the ropes. 

Nomads in their terra-cotta jerseys looked more heavy 
than the students in their blue and gold. Some of them 
were graduates settled down to practise in the town, but 
not too old to feel the joy of a good game. Others might 
be engineers, or else young business men with money 
enough to play as amateurs. What they scored in weight, 
however, they lost in training, so that the scales were 
nicely balanced. 

Sands was a Loretto boy, and his bright red stockings 
showed conspicuous. He was not well known to the 
crowd, but his game a week before had won him reputation, 
and the Varsity Captain passed round word that this man 
must be marked. This was just what Browser and his 

30 


THE FOOTBALL MATCH 


3i 

fellows wanted — they could do their hacking now with all 
the better conscience — it was “orders.” 

Sands, the tailor’s son, by this time had forgotten all 
about the row in the saloon, but after five minutes’ rough 
and tumble he remembered faces and suspected something 
more than football. Five minutes more convinced him. 

“Look out, sir,” came a warning voice as he was dashed 
across the touch line. “They mean to hurt you.” 

Now Sands might be a tailor’s son, but tailors’ sons have 
hearts as well as shins, and when your tailor’s son has learnt 
the game at Loretto and again in the school of the world 
out East, he may prove as game a cock as your bluest- 
blooded bantam. When therefore he found he was marked 
by malice he tightened his belt for the roughest play that 
ground had known. 

In spite of the sun, it was a day for forwards, the ground 
being clammy still from previous rains. Dribble and 
scum — they called it “maul” up there in those days — 
followed scrum and dribble. There were many sore 
heads, Browser’s among them, on the Varsity side, for 
Sands charged in like a battering ram, and a bullet head 
with fifteen stone behind it, well aimed, left an impression 
even on the head of your English medico. Then if it 
came to hacking or scragging, two could play at that game, 
Sands being one of the two. Innocent suffered with the 
guilty, for the tailor’s son had no time to pick and choose. 

Sands was so tall that the Nomad half-backs instinctively 
threw out to him from touch. As he got the ball he was 
violently downed. Greville was prominent in the crowd, 
howling for Browser, especially when Sands seemed 
damaged. 

Half-time came as a relief to most of the spectators. 
The game was too much in earnest. They felt that there 
was something wrong, and though they did not ask for 
kid gloves this was more like battle-axes. Sands was 
evidently singled out for blame, every one arguing ex- 
citedly about his style. 

As George loafed round looking for a new place he smiled 


32 


HEARTS AND FACES 


sarcastically, knowing what was really in the wind. The 
roof of the old chapel caught his eye, and then the old 
spider-crown of King’s, and he wondered how many quar- 
rels had been fought out under its peaceful shadow. Peace 
was supposed to be the prerogative of learning, that veneer 
on human nature. 

As he passed the primitive enclosure serving as a grand 
stand in the centre of the ground, he looked to see if Molly 
Arnold was about. Yes, she was, she and her golden hair. 
She seemed to be alone; at any rate Greville left her un- 
attended. 

The whistle blew for the second half. 

“We’ve got the wind with us now,” said the Nomad 
captain. “Play a more open game.” 

These tactics won, for almost instantly the ball was 
dribbled down past the Varsity defence and Sands scored 
the first try. Play grew rougher than ever after this try 
was converted and excitement ran fierce. 

“Buck up, Varsity!” “Go it, Sands!” “Well played, 
Browser !” 

Wolseley Greville was limping round and yelling his 
loudest. 

A long punt from the Nomad centre — they played with 
three three-quarters in those days — reached touch close 
to the Varsity line and the forwards reeled up. Sands 
intercepted the throw-out, only to be hurled down. As the 
ball slipped out of his hands Browser flung himself on 
Sands’s head. The latter by a powerful twist escaped 
severe injury and rose up in a passion. As the Varsity 
drove back their opponents the ball came into Browser’s 
hands. Sands crunched him, there was a crack that sounded 
all over the ground, and Browser fell limp with a broken 
shoulder. 

The umpire whistled furiously to stop the game and 
waved his hands excitedly as he came up to Sands. 

“You’re playing too rough, sir. I’ve a good mind to 
warn you off.” 

“Yah! Yah!” yelled Greville from the crowd. 


THE FOOTBALL MATCH 


33 

Browser heard the wrangle where he lay. Raising him- 
self with a great effort, he said between his teeth : 

“Don't blame him, umpire. It was my fault — not his.” 

Then he fainted and was carried away. 

Most of the ladies present left the ground at this, but the 
game went on and ended without further incident. George 
kept an eye on the enclosure, and saw that Molly Arnold 
still remained. When the crowd had quite dispersed she 
still lingered, evidently waiting for some one — no doubt 
Greville. That gentleman, however, had gone off without 
her and she returned alone. 

She passed George in the quadrangle, rather pale of face 
and downcast. He, on his part, walked behind her at a 
little distance, wondering and pitying. 

This was a rough world. 

The Lady Might-Have-Been had such a graceful figure. 

What a cad Greville was ! 

And so home. 

A fortnight afterwards he heard that Greville had sud- 
denly cleared out of the town. 

“A good thing too,” said George’s informant. “That 
barmaid ” 

Then some one interrupted and the conversation was 
never renewed. The examinations were at hand and 
everything else was for the time forgotten. 

Yet if Greville had disappeared, so, too, had Molly 
Arnold. A notice “To Let” in the window told its own 
tale. 

A couple of sonnets to the Lady Might-Have-Been, and 
then a newer interest swept out for the time all memory 
of her passage. 


CHAPTER V 


NATHANIEL REID, ARTIST 

N O man who has not passed through college can 
understand how terrible the word “Examina- 
tion” looms on the horizon. The prisoner at 
the bar feels but a tithe of those tremblings and 
those terrors that overhang the judgment seats of learning. 
Dark days and sleepless nights. 

At the end of the first session George, like the rest, sub- 
mitted to the ordeal. After a time word went round that 
the Greek results were out, so he hurried over to King’s to 
find his place on the list. 

Some had already found their places. On the way out 
he passed a dozen varying expressions, radiant or don’t- 
care. Two, who had come out higher in the list than work 
had warranted, were staggering on to further libations. 

The crowd around the notice-board at first impeded him. 
Ah! there he was! Only forty-first! 

So much for his ambition! 

He tried to work off disappointment along the well- 
tramped road to Galgownie. In another hour he was re- 
freshed by the keen March air, in the bright world seen 
and felt. As then he leaned over the New Bridge of Don, 
and looked across that lovely stretch of water to the Bar, 
he whispered to himself his favourite verses from his 
favourite poet: 

“There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, 

There is a rapture on the lonely shore, 

There is society, where none intrudes, 

By the deep Sea, and music in its roar : 

I love not Man the less, but Nature more, 

34 


NATHANIEL REID, ARTIST 


35 


From these our interviews, in which I steal 
From all I may be, or have been before, 

To mingle with the Universe, and feel 

What I can ne’er express, yet can not all conceal.” 

‘Tine, isn’t it?” said a voice behind him, and George 
started to face a grizzly-bear sort of man, whose colour-box 
and easel proclaimed him an artist. Those shaggy cheeks 
and chin and eyebrows, however, could not conceal the 
kindly expression of the mouth and eyes. A burly man 
he was, with arms like hooks. 

“They can talk of Greece up at the College,” continued 
the stranger, “but give me Balgownie.” 

“Yes,” said George, somehow losing his shyness, “it is 
fine. But the Greeks, too, loved the ocean. Remember 
the ‘wine-dark sea’ of Homer.” 

Thus opened a new friendship. 

Nathaniel Reid, the artist, had a wonderful way of 
winning confidence. Before a day was over George had 
told him things that he himself had hardly realised: how 
he hated the drudgery of work for examinations, how little 
sympathy he had for the other fellows, how much he 
wanted a chum, how aimless all his life had been. These 
confidences began over a cup of tea in Reid’s own room, 
walled with canvases and panels. 

“This is only just my workshop, or rather my store- 
room,” said the artist. “My real workshop is the open 
air. Nature, sonny, is the great inspiration. When ye 
go home, burn all yer books, save only Keats, and don’t 
read him except under the roof that God put up before they 
built the University. To tell the honest truth, ye’ll be 
a ninny if ye keep on as ye are doin’. Ye want more 
air.” 

“It’s fine for you to talk,” said George. “You can paint 
and have your friends in Nature and the open country. I 
see that these things are beautiful, but I don’t know why. 
I seem to miss half the beauty that you get a hold of.” 

“Maybe,” replied the artist, with a shake of the head, 
“maybe no.” 


36 


HEARTS AND FACES 


Then they went out again, ending with supper at George’s 
rooms. Reid stared at the unexpected decorations. 

“Are ye no wantin’ to be an artist yerself?” he said, 
looking round him. 

“Whatever made you think so?” answered George in 
surprise. “I never put so much as pencil to paper.” 

“Well, ye’ve got the guts of it, anyway. Ye’re no such 
a fool, if this is yer own thinkin’. Who told ye to choose 
these illustrations ye’ve made a border of? There’s 
Frederick Sandys, and an early Whistler, and old North 
when he was young, and du Maurier before he was Society, 
and Simeon Solomon when he was still only a Jew. Man, 
these were giants in those days.” 

“I just found them,” said George. “I liked them.” 

“And this procession from the Parthenon? Oh, of 
course, ye learned of it at the College.” 

“No, no! Only dry translations there — nothing about 
the life. Just words — not things.” 

Reid was silent for a minute or two. 

“I’ll tell you what, sonny,” he said at last. “I’m no a 
man of words either. But sometimes I’m thinkin’. It’s 
like this. Ye’ve got yer exams over for the now. Why 
not spend the next six months lookin’ for what ye’ve missed 
all yer life — beauty, nature, art ! Ye’ve got it in you, sonny. 
Paint, man, paint!” 

“I mightn’t be any good.” 

“Ye can damned well try, anyway. Come with me, 
sonny, and I’ll guarantee to teach you the elements. Ye 
tell me ye have money enough to live on without working 
for it. Then, for God’s sake, live, and don’t grovel on at 
yon College. There’s no such a book as the Book of Nature. 
Read that.” 

They were to meet again next day at the New Bridge of 
Don — “four o’clock in the afternoon,” said Reid. 

George spent a sleepless, excited night, with thoughts 
racing out to the future. Already he pictured himself with 
pale intellectual face and distinguished air passing along 
the streets. Already he could hear the people whisper as 


NATHANIEL REID, ARTIST 3 7 

they pointed to him: “That’s George Grange, the famous 
R.A.” 

Youth and imagination soon vault a score of years. 

Dawn came at last with fitful slumber and then, fresh 
with new hopes and always young in appetite, he sat down 
to a generous breakfast After which, a visit to a dealer in 
artists’ materials, who had no difficulty in selling him a box 
of Students’ water-colours, two sable brushes, half a dozen 
sketching boards, and a book entitled “Practical Hints on 
Landscape Sketching” by Samuel Smith, F.R.I.B.A. What 
these letters meant was as yet unknown, but they sounded 
all right. 

George spent all the morning over those practical hints, 
and by the hour of the midday meal he was quite pleased 
with himself. He had learnt by heart what colours to mix 
for a sky, what colours for a tree, what colours for heather, 
what for a rocky foreground, what for a lady’s face. It 
was after all delightfully simple, and he wondered why he 
had never taken to Art before. 

There were still two hours before he need set out, so he 
opened his box of colours, moistened a brush, rubbed a cake 
of colour, and commenced his first real subject — then his 
second — then his third. 

After that, a very much humbler George set out for the 
meeting-place. 

Reid was there before him, slapping in a note of the sky 
and cloud that hovered over the mouth of the Don. He 
had evidently been at work all day, for several panels, 
separated by corks, were leaned against the bridge. 

“Gone!” he sighed at last, laying down his brushes. 
“Man, ye’ve got to be right slick to catch it.” 

George looked at the sketch, and felt still humbler when 
he remembered his own dreadful first attempts. 

“Well, sonny,” said Reid, as he put down his palette 
and lit a pipe, “how’s Art ?” 

Then, catching sight of the book in George’s pocket, he 
nicked it out and opened it with a broadening smile. 

“To paint a tree — some Hooker’s green with a little 


HEARTS AND FACES 


38 

Naples yellow for the high lights, etc., etc. Gosh! what 
next ! For water in moonshine ” 

Swish went the book over the parapet into the water. 

Reid spat after it, his face all red. 

“Hoots, man,” he said after a moment, apologetically, 
“ye shouldna waste yer pennies on the likes o’ that. This 
is no a girl’s school that ye’re joining. What else have ye 
been doin’ with yerself, whiles?” 

Very shamefacedly George produced his box of water- 
colours. 

Reid opened it and made a movement to throw it after 
the book. However, he held his hand. 

“No,” he said, “we’ll no spoil the clean water. Eh, 
man ! ye meant well, but I should hae tell’t ye. Man, 
ye’ll no learn to be an artist this way, making Christmas 
cards with paints like yon. Not that a chap that knows 
couldna paint a good thing with yon paints, but that’s no 
the way to start. Ye’re not to touch a paint till ye’ve 
learnt to see and to discriminate. Come along with me, and 
I’ll explain it better.” 

He picked up his things and went, George following, 
along the path that leads to the old Brig o’ Balgownie, then 
down the bank nearer the river’s edge. 

Then, sticking up his easel, Reid pointed to a clump of 
trees. 

“See yon?” he said. “Yon’s trees. Now what’s 
their colour?” 

George hesitated. 

“Yes,” he ventured at last, “they’re not so very green — 
more brown, I think.” 

“Brown,” snorted Reid. “Just watch me paint them.” 

First of all he brushed in a grey sky, and then silvery 
grey water, then shaped a mass of greyish blue, then a few 
touches of madder, then more shape with a darker and 
warmer grey, and then a light warm grey — and it was 
there.” 

George compared with his eyes half-shut the real scene 
and the painted scene, and knew that Reid had seen truly. 


NATHANIEL REID, ARTIST 


39 


“I couldn’t have believed it till you did it,” he said. 

“Aye,” said Reid. “That’s the way to look and to 
paint — observation and analysis and harmonizing and con- 
struction and discrimination. It’s no like writin’ poetry, 
where ye just pile on adjectives that sound fine and mean 
nothing. Oh, I ken fine — I’ve written poetry mysel’ ! 
Now, what’s the time?” 

“Six o’clock.” 

“That’s the first lesson,” said Reid. “And now, what 
have ye learnt from it? Say yer say.” 

“I’ve learnt more in an hour than I learnt in six months 
at College. I’ve learnt that trees are not trees, but just 
the light that plays upon them.” 

Reid clapped him on the shoulder with a laugh that 
showed him the great boy that he was. 

“Splendid, lad, splendid!” he said. “Ye’ll be an artist 
yet.” 

Thus opened the happiest hour in George’s life. Reid 
was the casual gardener into whose hands fell the seed 
which chance has ready for a peculiar soil. 


CHAPTER VI 


A LECTURE ON WOMEN 

T HESE were the days before the New Regulations 
disturbed the serene atmosphere of King’s. 
There was just one curriculum for the degree of 
Arts, one road to knowledge, not seven hundred 
roads as there are to-day. The sweet girl undergraduate 
had not yet been let loose, the only privileged Venus being 
the girl who brought jam scones from Mundie, the Old 
Town baker. It was a poor man’s University, and to 
meet the poor man’s case the summer was left free so that 
he could serve in his father’s shop if need be, or work in 
his father’s fields, or however else he wished to butter the 
winter’s bread. 

A few who could afford it went to Germany, and came 
back from a summer session there even more ambitious 
than before to get out into the world as soon as they were 
able. 

One spirit flames through the Aberdonian, and that is 
the spirit of ambition. If he sees no chance of realising 
that in his own city, out he goes, irrepressible emigrant, 
to make his fortune somewhere else. Self-confidence is 
his passport, and difficult indeed would be the frontier 
that could stop him. Not a brilliant brain, but a terrific 
worker, he just as often as not gets to where he wants to 
in the end. 

What would have happened if all the Aberdonians had 
stayed in Aberdeen? Surely there would have been civil 
war. 

Summer then would have been an idle time for George if 
this new interest of art had not come into his life. He had 

40 


A LECTURE ON WOMEN 


41 


no need to earn a wage, neither had he fancy to become a 
bookworm. There were, of course, the texts prescribed 
for summer reading, but these could surely be gone through 
in half the time available. Travel might have tempted 
him — indeed he had thought sometimes of following in 
Heine’s footsteps through the Harz or tracing Goethe’s 
passage over the Brenner on that great Italian journey. 
But Germany and Italy could wait. Here was something 
to do right now and right away. 

It was as if his eyes had suddenly been opened. Never 
before had he realised just why it was that the road to 
King’s was so attractive, with its one-story cottages and 
red-tiled roofs, so different from the tall granite houses 
and grey slate of the newer town. All such detail had 
escaped him until now, for his eyes had been glued to books. 

Could he ever have spent such a spring as this was, poring 
over print? It was spring outside among the trees and 
flowers, and spring inside his heart, the sun singing “Come 
hither” to the sap of the world outdoors, and Reid with 
his gospel bringing life to the soul. 

George grew healthier in mind and body every day, now 
that he spent so much time sketching in the open air. It 
was cold enough work in that Northern spring, for, unless 
it was really rough weather, Reid made him get out by 
earliest dawn. But then were surely the loveliest scenes 
of all, the air still tremulous with night, and twilight per- 
vading in a thousand delicate gradations. Even the cold 
formal granite streets seemed to grow tender in the violet 
and rose and mauve and emerald in which the world was 
bathed at such an hour. 

One morning was altogether too fierce for outdoor work. 
A brusque, penetrating, spring-cleaning sort of east wind 
turned up coat collars and buried hands yet deeper into 
muffs. 

“Gran’ day for gallopin’ consumption,” said Reid. “Poke 
up the fire, sonny, and gi’e us a wee bit baccy, nae bigger 
than a bum-bee’s foot. Obch ay, h-tish !” 

When Reid sneezed it was wise to hold on to any loose 


42 


HEARTS AND FACES 


ornaments on the mantelpiece, for he had big lungs in 
that hairy chest of his ; and, if the ribs had not been strong 
to match, the whole human arsenal might well blow up. 

Sleet came slashing now upon the windowpanes. 

“What think ye of yon for May!” he growled. “Come 
out, come out, my dearest dear, and catch a chill wi’ me — 
h-tish, h-tish! Weel now, what’s to be done? Nae use 
working out o’ doors to-day. Ye’ll just have to put up wi’ 
still life till the morn’s morn.” 

George sat in front of the fire kicking his heels without 
showing much enthusiasm. Still life did not appeal to him 
just yet, and he was becoming ambitious. 

“What about getting a model in,” he said, yet half afraid 
to say it. “Wouldn’t it be more inspiring?” 

“Ooch ay, I ken fine what ye’re thinkin’ aboot — a female 
model, a Venus in petticoats, or perhaps without them. 
No, sonny, no! Or as the Yankees say, ‘Nothin’ doin’.’ 
See here — there’s a pewter mug and a lemon and a spoon 
and the decanter and this silver sugar bowl — let’s see what 
ye can make o’ that.” 

“Colour?” 

“Aye, colour — oils.” 

George sighed a little as he set to work. Reid was a 
more exacting master than he had yet had. There was 
more drudgery about this Art than he had ever thought. 
However, it had to be gone through. 

Once he had started, it was not so bad. There was a 
keen pleasure in analysing the light that played upon these 
surfaces and in mixing colours that made their textures. 
When the clock struck one, and Reid’s landlady brought 
in the dinner, George was loath to be disturbed. Ten 
minutes later he was back again at his painting, and except 
for a few brief rests never ceased till the light began to fall. 
Reid all the while was grumphing away at a canvas due 
for the R.S.A., a landscape with a low horizon capped by 
a vast bank of silvery grey clouds. 

“Nae sae bad,” he said, coming over to look at George’s 
work. “That’s what I call the real inspiration — not the 


A LECTURE ON WOMEN 


43 


artificial stimulant of sex. Gosh! Don’t I know! Havna 
I been there mysel’. Ye go an’ get a bonny wee lass up on 
a platform, an’ yer eyes get all fuddled up wi’ a kind of a 
glow, and ye don’t see a damn thing about her that ye 
ought to see. It’s just the same in life itself. Here, sonny, 
when ye’re as old as I am, ye’ll no be sae keen to run after 
the lassies. But here’s our tea — gooseberry jam and fresh 
scones — come on, we’ll talk about a’ yon foolishness after 
we’ve had somethin’ to eat. Help yersel’.” 

Reid’s landlady made delicious scones, and her goose- 
berry jam was most comforting. It was a cosy enough 
studio, and after they had finished they sat down in their 
arm-chairs to smoke and philosophise over the homely 
fire. George was willing to work all day for many a day, 
if only it ended in this friendly fashion. And Reid, being 
a philosopher, was glad to have his audience, if but an 
audience of one. 

“Now about this drawing from the life and your wish 
for the livin’ model, plainly with the intention of its being 
a lassie — this is a tendency noticeable in very young 
students who require this stimulus to their artistic impulse. 
This, however, they desire not qua artist but qua adolescent, 
liable to calf love, wishing to engage a pretty model not so 
much with the desire to draw her features and study the 
light and colour of her form, but so that she may serve as a 
basis for some fancy, dream, or picture. In the case of 
that ridiculously young art-student, George Grange, there 
is an unsettled sex condition which makes such stimulus 
particularly undesirable. For, sonny, judgin’ from the 
ballades, sonnets, villanelles and the like which from time 
to time ye have read to me, ye’ve fallen in love, and judgin’ 
by what I know of yer general character, ye’ve never had 
the spunk to speak to the lassie, and therefore are in the 
condition of unrequited affection, ripe to be diverted 
elsewhere. 

“Well, I’m no blamin’ ye or tellin’ ye to stop, so long 
as she does not interfere with yer digestion. But take 
this from me, anything that puts a man off his porridge 


44 


HEARTS AND FACES 


is better left alone. Love, whether requited or unrequited, 
is a disturbing, meddlesome affection, and the less you see 
of the lassies the better for yer general health of body and 
peace of mind. For what does it all end in? Why it 
ends in yer gettin’ married. 

“Now, sonny, d’ye think you could put in a day’s solid 
work like yon to-day if ye was married? See what would 
happen. There’s bairns, twa, three, sprawlin’ about and 
botherin’ the life out o’ ye, an’ the wife keeps bobbin’ in an’ 
out o’ the room where ye just want quiet, sayin’ ‘Geordie, 
rin oot an’ fetch half-a-pun o’ soap,’ an’ ‘Geordie, what’s a’ 
that mess ye’ve been makin’ in the kitchen sink?’ an’ 
‘Geordie, why can ye no fold yer trousers up tidy?’ an’ 
‘Geordie, where’s the hammer an’ the nails?’ an’ Geordie 
this an’ Geordie that, till ye’re driven fair daft and end by 
takin’ to drink. Na, na, the lassies are fine for young 
chaps as want to write poetry, but so far as art goes they’re 
no damned use.” 

“At least,” said George, “there are some of them who 
can make good scones.” 

“Ooch ay,” growled Reid, “if ye keep them in the 
kitchen.” 

He sucked his pipe for a while, smiling and shaking his 
head. Both of them drew up a little nearer the fire. 

“What colour of hair has she, your lassie, I mean?” said 
Reid unexpectedly. 

George blushed. 

“Golden,” he said at last rather huskily. 

“So had mine,” said Reid quite softly, as in a reverie. 
“And her eyes were blue, and her cheeks were as the 
damask rose — a dainty wee thing.” 

He stretched his fingers out, warming them close to the 
fire. 

“Some day, sonny, when ye go to England, ye’ll learn 
what roses are. There’s a few we can grow up here, but 
not the way they grow away down in Hertford or Devon. 
These bitter winters cut down all our roses. It was a bitter 
winter that cut down mine.” 


A LECTURE ON WOMEN 


45 


A tear rolled down George’s cheek in sympathy, but 
Reid did not notice it. He kept staring into the fire. At 
last he said: 

“Well, sonny, so you want to work from the living 
model. A’ recht, and so ye shall. But not yet a while. 
Ye’re gettin’ on fine as ye are, and there’s lots of time yet. 
Once I get ye started on the right way of lookin’ at things, 
I’ll send ye down south to the schools there. Dinna 
think I’ve adopted ye for life, sonny. I’m just passin’ ye 
on. Down there ye can learn another way of drawin’ 
things, and ye can draw life, an’ ye can see life. But bide 
a wee, bide a wee.” 

Such was one of many great evenings. 

Sympathy with nature was the gospel that Reid taught, 
not tradition or authority. 

This new life thrilled George in a way that books never 
could. With every sketch he felt he was creating some- 
thing, not learning something by rote or merely translating. 

He sold his classical text-books. He had made up his 
mind to give his life to art. 

Reid’s criticisms gave him little chance for conceit; yet 
they were not unkind, and they were encouraging. 

One day, when George gave up a sketch because some one 
was looking over his shoulder, he said : 

“Peg away, and ye’ll get the nerve to paint yer grand- 
mother in the middle of Piccadilly Circus.” 

“That’s when I go to London,” said George. 

“Ay,” said Reid, his face falling. “When ye go to 
London.” 


CHAPTER VII 


THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 

A TALL lanky man in spectacles was darting here 
and there over the moor, waving in his hand a 
slender rod, at the end of which was a circle of 
wire and a net. He seemed to be chasing moths. 
An adept, too, for every time he flicked the net he won some 
trophy for his bottle. 

Curlews were calling overhead, while underfoot wolf- 
spiders prowled in tireless search for prey. Here, poised 
in dazzling splendour over the pond by Denmore Wood, 
was another hunter of moths, a dragon-fly, far crueller 
than man, for he nipped the bodies off and let the wings 
fall pitifully in the water. 

The naturalist came up and watched his fellow hunter: 
then tied a muslin net to a stick and dragged for watery 
spoils. Pulling at last a handful of weeds, he would have 
passed on had he not noticed George sketching, or rather 
hiding his sketch. 

“Hullo ! Painting ?” 

“Trying to.” 

“Not much colour here. Ever looked through a micro- 
scope? That's the way to see the world. Poor things, 
trees — all one green. Poor thing, sky — all one blue. Oh, 
you artists ! Blind ! Blind ! Blind ! Hullo, there’s a 
Painted Lady.” 

He was off like a madman, and zig-zagged out of sight 
after his ideal beauty. 

A thousand such distractions at first used to dazzle 
George whenever they went to work. Most dazzling of all 
when they went to Reid’s favourite painting ground on 

46 


THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


47 


Scotstoun Moor beyond Balgownie. In vain the older 
artist shook his head. The aimless education from which 
George had sipped had left its poison, and he could not 
school himself at once to concentration. How could he 
fix his mind on mere reflections of colour and light when 
there was a world humming and hunting and blooming 
about him — lizards to be chased, ants to be teased, forget- 
me-nots and broom to pick? Reid at last had to drag him 
off and set him on a lonely shore to practise on the different 
tones of sea and sky. 

“Let’s get away for a change,” said George one day. 
“Let’s go up Deeside. I’m sick of this drudgery. Surely 
one should paint only when one is inspired.” 

Rain had threatened all the morning. Before them 
stretched unbroken horizon. 

“It’s goin’ to clear,” said Reid, sucking his pipe. 

“We’re not talking of weather, but of Deeside. Just 
look at that monotonous line stretching out to Doomsday. 
I want more scenery.” 

“And a camera.” 

“You don’t know the Highlands,” said George, flushing. 
“Why, man, the colour is fine — big blue mountains, and 
purple where the heather is, and mists, and forests of fir. 
I want the ‘steep frowning glories of dark Lochnagar.’ ” 

“Hoots, man, ye’ve Byron on the brain. Better sit down 
at the Linn o’ Dee, and paint cards for passin’ tourists.” 

George hacked the sand. 

“Look here, sonny,” said the older man. “Ye’re 
lookin’ at it the wrong way round. Ye think that grand 
scenery makes the grand painter. But it’s no like that. 
It’s the grand painter that makes the grand picture, because 
he gets the heart of him on the canvas. D’ye know that 
the finest painters to-day are the Dutch, who live in 
flatter country than this? And d’ye know that our own 
greatest landscapes were painted in the lowlands of East 
Anglia ? Man, if ye could only see John Crome’s Mousehold 
Heath in the National Gallery, ye would understand the 
greatness of simplicity. You young chaps want to go 


48 


HEARTS AND FACES 


trampin' for miles lookin’ for what is at yer door. Open 
yer eyes, man, dinna stretch yer legs. As for scenery, 
look at yon !” 

The low-lying veil had lifted from the horizon, showing a 
great bank of clouds towering up in pale citron under the 
still uncovered sun. The sea, which up to now had sulked 
in dirty grey, shimmered in gold and emerald and amethyst. 
A hollow space of blue between the trailing skirts of rain- 
cloud and the great mass behind gave body to the whole. 

“There’s an old painter,” continued Reid, “old in years 
but not in heart, who lives by a stretch of moor, lookin’ 
away to the low hills in the distance. Ay, sonny, as great 
an artist as lives, but I don’t think he ever painted the 
Highlands. What he does paint is the light, and the fresh- 
ness of the sea, and the sweetness of spring, and little chil- 
dren — just the common things. As he stood one day at 
the foot of his garden and looked away over the heath, he 
thought of those beautiful words in Lavengro : ‘Life is 
sweet, brother. . . . There’s day and night, brother, both 
sweet things ; sun, moon and stars, all sweet things ; there’s 
likewise a wind on the heath.’ A wind on the heath — 
that is the subject taken by our grandest living painter 
after forty years of solid work.” 

“What’s his name?” 

“Never mind, but he’s a grand man for skies. He minds 
me of Carlyle — a philosopher in paint. Just think of him 
sittin’ there down in his garden, bringin’ on to his canvas 
the sunlight — and there’s a wind on the heath.” 

Reid had surely the heart of a poet, though he never 
confessed to rhyme. Just enough money to buy paints 
and food, for, though he could have sauced his meat with 
portraits, he lived on bread and landscape. 

George saw his friend paint just one portrait, and that 
was worthy of his nature. They had come in ravenous 
when a knock alarmed them. 

“Behear us !” cried Reid. “A buyer !” 

Plates, cheese, bread and knives were hurled pell-mell 
into a handy cupboard. George rapidly turned over some 


THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


49 


likely canvases to the light, while the artist himself, wrig- 
gling into his Sunday coat with his left hand, brushed his 
hair with his right. 

Another imperious knock, and so an impressive welcome. 

“Please, sir,” said a small voice outside the door, “it’s 
spring cleaning the morn’s morn, and would the gentleman 
mind if mither wipes the floor?” 

Reid dashed out, to return with the messenger on his 
shoulder. She was a fair-haired, ruddy-faced little girl 
of almost four, exceedingly demure, and gratified by her 
reception. 

“What did mither say ye were to get for takin’ the mes- 
sage?” he said, throning her on the table. “Was it a box 
o’ chocolates, or were ye to get yer portrait painted ?” 

A smile lit up her face. 

“Ma portit paintit,” she said. 

“A weel, we’ll jist do it the noo,” seizing his brushes. 

“Eh, but,” he said, pretending disappointment, “we 
hinna a canvas. How can we paint ye a portrait withoot a 
canvas ?” 

“Find a campas.” 

“The verra thing,” said the artist, as if inspired. “Here, 
where’s ma knife?” 

He flourished over the floor, and cut a square out of the 
linoleum carpet. The little lady shrieked with excitement, 
and as she sat there bubbling over, Reid transferred her 
daintiness to colour. Oh, the life and laughter of it! 
Surely “Mither’s” pride soon patched that floor. 

Never could George forget one of his first walks with the 
artist to Old Machar, the beautiful Cathedral lying between 
King’s College and Balgownie. It was still spring, and 
the light foliage of the earlier budding trees made the 
world so sweet and fresh. Behind the Cathedral is a narrow 
strip of cemetery, so enclosed that the sun can barely reach 
it. From this cool hermitage one looks over the Don to 
Seaton, the loveliest view in that delicious spot. So quiet 
and serene was the air that instinctively their voices 
dropped. 


5o 


HEARTS AND FACES 


“Ay, sonny,” said Reid, after a while, “this is indeed 
God’s earth. If there is anywhere that I should like to lie 
at last, it would be here under this old shadow, no stone to 
mark me, just a bed of forget-me-not and evergreen. 
There’s no such thing as a soul, sonny, but I think a body 
could lie in quiet here, under the trees, with the river runnin’ 
down to the sea.” 

How exquisite the Old Town looked as they returned! 
Near the top of the Spital Brae they could see the Crown of 
King’s, sleeping as it had slept for centuries, with gardens 
round it, and old memories. A little further were the twin 
grey spires of Old Machar, and then the hills beyond. 

George after a while made quicker progress. As his eyes 
were opened more and more to the colour of the world, so 
flowered his happiness. Reid seldom praised him, only let 
him work on. The months passed on till October came 
round, and the east winds. 

“Geordie,” said Reid one day. 

“Imphm ?” 

“I’m thinkin’,” with clouds of smoke. “I’m thinkin’,” 
he continued, “that it’s time for us to part.” 

“Never!” cried George. “Whatever are ye havering 
at?” 

“I’m thinkin’ ye’ve got to make the great choice.” 

“What choice?” 

“There’s no puttin’ it off. The new session’s com- 
mencin’, and there’s a grave responsibility upon me. Is it 
to be Art?” 

George trembled a little as he answered. 

“Do you think I’m no good? Do you want me to go 
back to my books? Is that fair, after all you’ve taught 
me? Perhaps I have not worked steadily enough ” 

“No, no! Ye’ve done fine — especially these last two 
months — but it’s like this.” 

He tapped the ashes out of his pipe against a sole inch- 
thick, and slowly thumbed it full again with bogie-roll. 

“Ye’re doin’ fine, sonny, but ye’re gettin’ on too fast — 
jumpin’ out of yer skin. There’s more drawin’ to face. 


THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


5i 

more drudgery. That’s what I’m thinking and there’s a 
grave responsibility upon me.” 

“Go on !” 

“There’s the session just commencin’, and there’s the 
world — the world and Art. Which is it to be? King’s 
College and slow death, or the world and life? Books 
that’ll suck the guts out of ye, or life and workin’ from the 
life that’ll make a man of ye ? Aye, be Gum ! a man of ye. 
That’s yer choice — Guts or Greek.” 

There was a rift in the smoke. 

“Michael Angelo, be Gum! Titian, be Gum! — what 
are books to them but mealy puddin’ !” 

He stamped out from the fog of his own furious smoking. 

“I’m no mad,” he said, “just thinkin’. It’s London ye 
want, and seein’ big things, and drawin’ from the life and 
livin’, and doin’ it all by yerself. It’s no good yer luggin’ 
on to my apron-strings. I’m no the man to tie ye up or 
teach ye. Colour, if ye like — I know a bittie about colour 
— but there’s more than that to learn. No, man, ye must 
go to London — London or Paris — and draw from the life. 
Ye must do it alone. Sink or swim.” 

“But what about Nature?” 

“That’s it,” said the older man. “Nature — learned after 
infinite patience — command of form as well as mastery of 
colour. Yer eyes are opened now. I think ye’ll no be 
spoiled by the schools.” 

George sighed. Was this companionship to end ? Could 
he face the world by himself? 

“I may as well tell you now,” he said after a while. “I’ve 
sold all my books already.” 

“Never !” cried Reid. “Yer College books? Losh behear 
us ! That’s more ’n I’d ha’ thought of you. But that set- 
tles it, and I’m glad. Ye’ve made up yer mind to be an 
artist, and an artist ye’ll be — a fine artist, too, sonny,” sym- 
pathetically patting George’s shoulder. Then relapsing into 
still broader Doric, “Aye, man, ye’re a’ recht.” 

George flushed. 

“Well,” he said, “you know best.” 


52 


HEARTS AND FACES 


The older man crossed to the window of the room and 
looked out. The leaves were falling, and already the world 
seemed desolate and bare. For a long time he stood there, 
until the light began to fail. Then as George rose and 
stood beside him, Reid turned round. 

His face was stained with tears. 


CHAPTER VIII 


LONDON 

I FEEL as if I were Odysseus starting on perilous 
adventures,” said George, leaning out of the carriage 
window. Reid had come down to the station to see 
him off. 

“Well, Odysseus did get home after all. Perhaps when 
you too get home, ye’ll find as he did, the old dog will be 
there to welcome, old dog being Nathaniel Reid, artist.” 

“Stan’ clear !” shouted the guard, whistling shrilly through 
his fingers. 

“Good-bye, sonny. Good luck!” 

“Good-bye.” 

A last shake of the hand, and George was off — into the 
unknown. Sitting back into his corner he swallowed lumps 
as he watched the familiar scenes slip gradually by. They 
were over the Dee now, and now they were at Cove — 
Muchalls — Stonehaven. 

He was awakened from his reverie by a kick on the shins 
from a small boy, one of several playing on the seat beside 
him. 

“Stop yer feet wobblin’ aboot,” said a man opposite, 
evidently the father, smacking his son sharply on the thigh. 

A howl followed like clockwork, and for an hour there 
was a deluge of tears and broad Scots. 

Relief came at Perth, when the prolific passenger got out, 
leaving George alone with a keen-faced Yankee in the op- 
posite corner, also travelling from Aberdeen. 

“Guess I could hang my coat on that man’s ac-cent,” 
twanged the latter. 

George responded with a smile. 

“You are from Aberdeen?” 

53 


54 


HEARTS AND FACES 


A nod. 

“Sleepiest town I ever struck. Waiter at the hotel asked 
me when I wanted my bath. ‘Five o’clock/ I said. Gee! 
he nearly broke in two. ‘Five p.m. ?’ he said. ‘Five a.m./ 
said I, ‘and you won’t smell my dollar till I get it/ Well, 
bet you I did your town before breakfast. I just 
took a pocketful of crackers over-night and hustled around. 
Guess I don’t waste time over here. Six hours sleep, and 
I grab my food and hustle around. Wonderful old hut 
that at the foot of the big street — Market Cross you call 
it — think so?” 

“Never noticed it,” said George. 

“Well, I declare! Been to sleep like the rest, I guess. 
And that mossy old pile in the old town — Queen’s College — 
that’s mighty fine. How many dollars is that worth ? What, 
say don’t know? Well I declare! But for real serviceable 
buildings, give me Smith’s University on our side — ever 
heard of Smith?” 

“Any relation to Jones?” said George. 

“Guess you’re pulling my leg, young fellow. Don’t do it 
again. Guess if Smith’s name was good enough for twenty 
million dollars it was good enough for an edoocational in- 
stitootion. Know Glasgow? No shakes on Chicago. When- 
ever I see a noo building running up here, I think on Chi- 
cago. Guess they don’t pray for rain in Glasgow. Would 
you believe me, I saw yesterday a Salvation Army process 
down Sauchiehall Street and every man, woman and child 
carried an umbrella!” 

“Tickets !” said a guard sharply. 

“Holy Moses! will you kindly take my ticket and keep 
it, Mr. Conductor,” growled the American. “Never struck 
such a country. Guess I’ve worn out two vests showing 
tickets on your Goddam railways these two days.” 

“Blair Athole? Change here. Hurry up!” 

“Well, I declare!” And the hustler shot out, leaving 
George alone. 

The old saying of “Tak awa Aiberdeen an’ twal’ mile 
roun’, an’ whar are ye?” accurately represents the North 


LONDON 


55 


Eastern mind. George had never thought of his native town 
as a sort of rabbit-hutch, and yet — ? He would soon see. 

“Stop yer feet wobblin’ aboot!” 

He too was only a restless boy. Fortunately he had no 
father now to tie him down. He could kick the shins of 
the world if he liked. Let the world look out! 

Passengers came in and out between Carlisle and Euston. 
No one to disturb his dreams. 

Reid had advised him to live in Chelsea, but where Chel- 
sea was George had not the least idea. He did not wish to 
give away his ignorance, and therefore when the cabman 
asked “Where to ?” said : 

“An hotel, please — somewhere near the Crystal Palace.” 

Jehu stared at him. 

“ ’Oss is tired, sir. Suppose we say the British Museum ?” 

“Very well,” said George, wondering why the porter 
sniggered. 

As they drove out of Euston he thrilled with pleasure. 
This, this was London ! 

Looking up at a street corner he saw the legend “Oxford 
Street.” 

Wonderful name! Here was that “stony-hearted step- 
mother” that de Quincey had known. To-night it was 
thronged with passers-by, strange people from a new world. 

Oxford Street ! The word Oxford called back to him the 
hopes and ambitions of the life he had left behind. Up in 
that northern University the Principal had always held 
up to his students the hope that the best of them should 
one day enter the “arenas of the south” — his favourite 
phrase — where all true scholarship was nurtured. George 
had wondered if such should ever be his luck in the days 
before he had met Nathaniel Reid. It was not Oxford 
now with its classical calm that beckoned. It was this 
Oxford Street, this throng of men and women passing by, 
this stony-hearted stepmother, if you will, drinking the 
tears of the fatherless. 

The drive seemed endless. It had already lasted over 
an hour, when at last the cab pulled up. 


56 


HEARTS AND FACES 


“Thought you would like a temperance ’otel,” said the 
driver. “This one specially recommended by the Bishop 
of London and Dr. Barnardo. Take an old man’s advice 
and stop ’ere. Crystal Palace is ten mile further on. 
Wouldn’t get there till two in the morning.” 

“What’s the fare?” 

“Well, six bob’s the legal, but you bein’ a stranger and 
new to London, say five.” 

George thought that London cabbies were a much 
maligned race. Adding sixpence to the claim, he thanked 
him. 

“Take my ticket,” said the driver, touching his cap. 
“You get a map before you go out again, and see where 
you’s a-going to. You won’t find them all like me. I was 
once a stranger myself.” 

When George did get a map, he understood. 

So it was that George arrived in London, not like the 
proverbial Scot with only sixpence in his pocket, but just as 
friendless. After chasing through Chelsea for a lodging, 
he chose an attic, on the principle that this was furthest 
from the drains. Reid had given him an introduction to a 
French artist now in England, but when George rang at the 
address he could get no answer. So for several times. 

Reid had recommended him to go to the Slade School; 
but, as the masters there would not let him join the life- 
class till he had been through the antique, George cried off. 
He found that he could join an evening life-class at a school 
near Oxford Street without any such preliminary. 

So far he had done just landscape, with still life on wet 
days. It was therefore with some shyness that he entered 
the school for his first attempt at the nude. The class was 
held in a sort of private house with the studio at the furthest 
end from the entrance on the ground floor. In the ante- 
room where men were taking off their coats some ancient 
casts struck attitudes, a lay figure sprawled about with 
absurd contortions, and an unfinished painting invited criti- 
cism from its easel. 

In the studio itself the men were waiting idly for the 


LONDON 


57 


model. Most of them were of his own age, though a few 
were older hands. Then a young woman, rather badly 
dressed, hurried to a door beside the platform which evi- 
dently hid her dressing-room. In a few minutes she 
had slipped on to the platform, the pose was decided, and 
seats or standing easels were selected. George hardly dared 
to look at the model, but somehow found a seat near the 
right hand wall. It was the first time he had seen the 
earthly Venus, and the faults of earth came as a shock to 
one familiar with ideal renderings. The girl’s face might 
have passed, but her breasts were spare and pendant, throw- 
ing an ugly shadow. The feet had warts with toes in- 
curling. 

“Why do her breasts hang like that ?” he whispered after 
a while to his neighbour, an oldish man with a bushy 
beard. 

“She’s been ill. But she sits well, and the general lines 
of her figure are good. If you don’t like your place, change 
with me.” 

The change was made, and for an hour there was silence. 
Then some one called out “Time!” The model stretched 
herself, put on her wrap and disappeared. 

To his surprise, George found that most of the other 
students had begun their drawings with a pretty face, only 
faintly suggested by the original. Some had planned 
a composition into which the model roughly fitted. One 
only, his neighbour, was drawing an actual study of the 
figure. 

During the second hour, a youth in front talked loudly of 
some illustrated joke he had just got published. Then 
there was silence as the master entered. 

He was a little man, with a bald head, and contented 
himself with correcting faults of proportion. 

Over George’s uncertain effort he hummed and ha’d a 
little. 

“I think our left leg is too short,” he said. “Also I 
should add an inch to our head.” 

So long as George had worked with Reid, Art had always 


58 


HEARTS AND FACES 


been something of the Goddess. Now, in this atmosphere 
of an insipid school, he learnt to know her as a many-headed 
dragon. Here there was only the cockney’s eye for beauty 
— showy goods behind a counter. One man was for achiev- 
ing fame as a poster artist and talked of the prices So-and-so 
got for his designs. Others were for illustration — one for 
horses, another for violent action, a third for ships, a 
fourth for costume — all, however, chiefly concerned for the 
money they could make, talking the shop of artistic hacks. 

The model was not nude every evening. On alternate 
nights the figure was draped, and on these nights women 
students came to the class. 

After a fortnight of this George came to the conclusion 
that he needed a more strenuous air and that he must 
attend day classes as well. Up to now he had spent his 
days at the National Gallery and seeing the sights of Lon- 
don. He therefore tried another school recommended by 
the neighbour with the bushy beard, St. Margaret’s. 

To his dismay he found the entrance hall at St. Mar- 
garet’s alive with blue smocks and frizzled hair. He had 
had enough of the lady artist at the former school and 
almost fled. Fortunately a notice on the door referred 
to a life-class for male students. Plucking up courage, 
he asked to see the secretary. That gentleman was out, so 
George left some sketches with a note expressing his desire 
to join the school. 

Next day an answer came, that “though your drawing is 
very feeble, Mr. Garden Sheaf, the master, will admit you to 
the life-class if you pay your fees.” 

The entrance hall at St. Margaret’s was clear on his 
second appearance. An old man like Don Quixote accepted 
his fees and conducted him to the studio. Only three be- 
sides himself were present, in no particular hurry to begin. 
When at last they started, George took a vacant seat, only 
to be told to move ten minutes later by a late-comer whose 
place he had appropriated. By this time others came drop- 
ping in, and it was not till after the first rest that 
George at last found a vacant position beside a bony student 


LONDON 59 

of the name of Shanks, who in a brief ten minutes had 
roughed in a vigorous suggestion of the pose. 

The model had a charming figure, and by the end of the 
second hour George had forgotten the earlier annoyances. 
Badinage and the amiable fooling of two lazy wits did at 
times disturb him, but he soon got used to these. There 
was an hour for lunch at midday, followed by two hours’ 
work in the afternoon. To George’s surprise no master 
came all day. 

Most of his fellow-students drew in charcoal, but some 
were painting. During the intervals they sauntered round 
looking at each other’s work. They were much more ex- 
perienced draughtsmen than George, so his production did 
not delay them. After all, he was glad that Garden Sheaf 
had stayed away. 

Next day brought another model in costume. Again he 
sat with Shanks. 

“You don’t paint,” he ventured to his neighbour. 

“Can’t afford materials. May I borrow some of your 
bread?” 

Just then the door opened and an “arty” individual with 
pointed golden beard stalked in, folding his arms in an at- 
titude behind the stool nearest the door. Clearly it was 
Garden Sheaf, for every one bent down to work. George 
had not long to wait. Garden Sheaf disposed of the whole 
room in ten minutes, a sneer and two rough charcoal sug- 
gestions sufficing for the new student. Sighs of relief fol- 
lowed the visitor’s exit. 

“Is this all the teaching we get?” asked. George of 
Shanks. 

“Quite enough,” was the reply. “It’s only women that 
can’t learn by themselves.” 

After a few minutes George ventured further. 

“I saw lots of women outside. Are they no good?” 

.“In one way they are. They pay for us.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“This part of the school does not pay its way. It’s the 
women that bring the profit. Garden Sheaf has his uses. 


6o 


HEARTS AND FACES 


Women adore him and flock here, and so we get a cheap 
studio — precious darlings.” 

Shanks turned abruptly away. 

At three o’clock George gave up disheartened and went 
to the National Gallery. Then for the first time a great 
despair came over him. He realised the steepness of the 
road that he must travel. He remembered the contempt 
with which the men at St. Margaret’s passed his drawing, 
and then that cutting sneer from Garden Sheaf. Now that 
he looked at masterpieces such as Durer’s portrait of his 
father, he saw how infinitely they overtopped him. How 
could his feeble fingers ever reach such accuracy and yet 
breadth of touch, how could his eyes refine to such keen 
and yet romantic vision? He was alone, one solitary be- 
ginner fighting his way unaided to expression. 

A brusque official urged him into the street. 

Pausing on the steps, he shuddered in the chill grey light 
that shrouded Trafalgar Square. Nelson’s figure was ob- 
scured by mist and the lions might have been sphinxes 
guarding the inscrutable secret of the world. Meanwhile 
the human river hurried along, careless except of motion. 

“Cheer up, my lad,” said a recruiting sergeant, scenting 
a victim, “we’ll soon be dead, so why not die for your 
country? Fine times for the likes of you — smart uniform, 
good victuals, beer and baccy. The Royal ” 

George hurried away from the enchanter and wandered 
till hunger drove him home. In his lodging he sat moodily 
over his fire. The note from the secretary of St. Mar- 
garet’s caught his eye: “Though your drawing is very 
feeble, Mr. Garden Sheaf, the master, will admit you to the 
life-class if you pay your fees.” 

Fees! That was all they wanted. How many thou- 
sands passed through these schools out of and into the inane. 
What matter if they paid their fees? 

Damn them all! He would spite them yet. They were 
only Englishmen after all. 

The landlady laid supper. 

“Anything else, sir?” she smirked at the door. 


LONDON 


61 


George lifted the cover. It was his favourite dish. 

“Thank God for food !” he muttered, and set to. “Make 
me some strong coffee,” he said to the woman who stood 
watching him. 

All through that night he copied drawings by Andrea del 
Sarto. As he drew, the events of the last year paraded 
through his sub-conscious mind. He remembered — how 
long ago it seemed ! — his first day at College and the round 
of lectures, library and lodgings. The face of Adam Grant 
shaped itself into the face he drew, and with a shudder he 
put aside the recollection of that echo of Greek tragedy in 
MacGillivray’s Court. Then came the face of the Lady 
Might-Have-Been — should he ever see that face again? 
This was a more misty face — he was less observant then. 
Then came Reid — glorious fellow and true friend. 

Ever and anon the motto of Marischal College underran 
his thoughts: “They Haif Said. Quhat Saye They? Lat 
Yame Saye.” A grim smile flickered on his lips as he thought 
of Garden Sheaf and his criticism. At dawn the tramp of 
workmen startled him. 

“Damn them all!” he repeated as he slipped into bed. 
‘Til spite them yet.” 

At the end of a month George decided to stay on at St. 
Margaret’s. He had learned to like that atmosphere of art, 
inches thick in dust. Still there was no one whom he could 
call friend. Shanks played hermit in an impenetrable shell, 
all the harder for his poverty. And yet George found 
his fellows here more sympathetic than the undergradu- 
ates at Aberdeen. St. Margaret’s was singularly free 
from the ambition which aims at pot-boiling or Academical 
success. Some were of course mere amateurs, spending 
their awkward age in surroundings more congenial 
than home or an office, but even these had ideals of a 
sort. 

On the whole, they were a decent set of fellows, com- 
prising not a little talent, although none betrayed super- 
lative genius. The school had known more vigorous days 


62 


HEARTS AND FACES 


and still retained some of its tradition. Occasionally an old 
student would rejoin them and electrify the idlers into 
more work and less talk. Yet some of the idlers were the 
cleverest of all. They required only the pinch of poverty 
to work their names into exhibition catalogues. 

George envied their facility. It was their skill that made 
them idle. In two hours they drew something that passed 
muster while he still laboriously shaped and re-shaped. 
They had the tricks of bread and charcoal at their finger- 
ends, while he still struggled with the problems of con- 
struction. 

The neighbouring women students were the subject of 
amused indifference. They too must have had some clever 
hands, but the soul was the soul of imitation. In the 
monthly competition the prize for figure drawing usually 
fell to a woman, not because she was a better artist, but 
because she used the formula of Garden Sheaf, a heavy 
outline round the figure. The men all scorned the trick; 
and once when Shanks obtained first-prize by sending in a 
drawing done this way, he had to explain that he did it to 
pay the rent. 

George worked on in dogged silence, taking his only 
relaxation in the gallery of an occasional theatre. On the 
nights when the Art Library at South Kensington was open 
he might usually be seen at seat 79. It was not *strange 
that in such a friendless life he turned at times to his old 
companionship in books. The truth to nature that he 
loved had in a way been preluded by those old days with 
Balzac. Now he traced the human fact in Art, the lives of 
his new heroes : Albrecht Differ, that Lutheran so passion- 
ate for truth; Rembrandt, whose vision of the Light in 
Darkness shone through unhappy years; Constable, with 
breezes and bloom and freshness bedewing every page he 
penned to Leslie; Millet most of all, with his epic of the 
ground gloriously unfolded not alone in picture but also in 
imperishable prose. How many a passage he learned by 
heart in French and in translation from those letters to 
Sensier ! One he copied out and fastened to the wall above 


LONDON 63 

his head so that he could see it every day when he 
awoke : 

“Some tell me that I deny the charms of the country. 
I find much more than charms. I find infinite glories. I 
see as well as they do the little flowers of which Christ 
said that Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one 
of these. I see the halos of dandelions, and the sun which 
spreads out beyond the world its glory in the clouds. But 
I see as well, in the plain, the steaming horses at work, and 
in a rocky place a man, all worn out, whose ‘han’ ’ you have 
heard since morning, and who tries to straighten himself 
for a moment and breathe. The drama is surrounded 
with beauty. ,, 

Those who had known him only a year before would have 
been astonished at the pace George swept into maturity. 
At King’s College he had been a mere boy, unstable because 
of aimless discontent. The steady concentration and disci- 
pline required by his new life had begun the change which 
London had continued. Provincial soil encourages an easy 
growth. The Great City jostles you into self-reliance, or 
crowds and starves you out. 

George, always neat in his dress, became something of a 
dandy. It struck him that it was more sanitary, if less 
artistic, to differ in costume from a dealer in old clothes. 
Unconscious of his uppishness, he conveyed the impression 
that he was a man of means. This no doubt alienated the 
very men whom he wished to make his friends, for the out 
at elbows is mostly proud and the others who wore clean 
shirts came to the school chiefly as a pastime. Sometimes 
he would feel hurt when a fellow-student such as Shanks 
evaded invitations, never thinking that clothes could be a 
barrier. Had he been more self-conscious, he might have 
realised the contrast in the looking-glass of any shop win- 
dow. As it was, he thought he must be despised for his 
work. 

The Woman did not appear. She might have made him 
more human. For sex surges in the artist, however deeply 


64 


HEARTS AND FACES 


submerged. The under-swirl may not run along the usual 
channel, but still it is there. To change the metaphor, the 
flower is very beautiful but it still has roots in earth, un- 
noticed perhaps and forgotten, but sucking life amid the 
worms for mysterious and dreamy fragrance. The thoughts 
and words of the studio are clean, infinitely cleaner 
than in careers where womanhood is veiled ; but sex 
knows no impregnable Gibraltar. George noticed this him- 
self. The life-class was half empty when the model 
was a man. 

He was curious to learn the histories and types of mind of 
the girls who came to pose. During the intervals of rest, 
conversation shuttlecocked from stool to platform amus- 
ing and instructive. Disillusion came frequently enough. 
One did not need to listen long before one found that angel 
faces often hid a Cockney tongue. 

So careful were the models that he never had the courage 
to suggest a supper or a theatre, though he knew that others 
found this possible. Here again his handicap was his ap- 
pearance, his unconscious sneer, or perhaps the dandyism 
which so often signals danger. Living as she does by health 
and by her figure, an artists’ model is inclined by circum- 
stance to take few risks, and those that temper monotony 
with indiscretion soon find themselves abyssed. Neither 
better nor worse than the shop-girls and domestic servants 
who would shun their acquaintance, they face their precari- 
ous career with an armour forged by caution. 

There are of course artists who snatch at unfair chances, 
but nature has been curiously just to the human instinct, 
and those who come most in contact with the nude are those 
who are content to realise only its beauty. Had Plato been 
familiar with artist life, he might have cited the indecent 
painter as the grossest instance of “the lie in the soul.” 

Moral health grows with knowledge. No longer at the 
mercy of blind sensuous enjoyment, the artist finds poor 
pleasure in crude physical delights. 

Never could George forget his shock when he discovered 
his landlady gloating over studies which to her mind were 


LONDON 65 

gloriously indecent. Needless to say he changed his attic 
and henceforth locked up his portfolios. 

He was thus able to thread the perilous life of London 
with as much safety as sincere religion or a single-hearted 
love could have effected. £200 a year is key to the gates of 
hell unless there is some saving principle. But in George 
the sensuous sway of hips provoked no physical desire, only 
thoughts of construction and of form. 

Yet he was still a man. Circumstances might still arise 
under which the old Adam would out. 


CHAPTER IX 


HOMESICK 

I N the meantime the new Adam walked his garden in 
another way. Every day when he awoke he read the 
quotation from Millet which he had pinned up at the 
end of his bed and as the days dawned earlier with 
the coming of summer, George felt a tugging at the heart 
and the salt tang of the sea in his nostrils and the frag- 
rance of the heather. 

Urgent grew the call of the North, but what would Reid 
say — Reid who had sent him South? The schools would 
close very shortly — surely this was excuse enough. 

“My dear Mentor/’ his letter ran. 

“This is the third time of writing to you since I came 
to London — once at Christmas, once at Easter and once 
now, without so far any reply. Have you not been well, or 
is it only that you can’t be bothered to write? If only we 
could meet I could show you what I have been doing — 
sketch books full and ever so many sheets of charcoal draw- 
ings, with a few shots at colour which, however, I have let 
be as you wished it so. You were right. I am glad you 
drove me to this drudgery of drawing. It will pay in the 
end. 

“But honestly, I want to see you again — you and some 
of the old places. I never knew before how fond I was 
of Scotland. You remember the old Emigrant’s poem: — 

“ ‘From the lone sheiling and the misty island, 

Mountains divide us and a world of seas, 

But still the blood runs true, the heart is Highland 
And we in dreams behold the Hebrides.” 

“I am not Highland nor ever saw the Hebrides, but I am 
66 


HOMESICK 67 

fair sick for a sight of the links and the heather and the 
old Spider Crown at King’s. 

“The school closes next week. I have heard of a farm 
house in the Chilterns, but why not Aberdeen?” 

The answer came : 

“My dear Geordie, — 

“Haste ye back again. I’ve a damned poor fist for 
writing and a still damneder fist for spelling, besides which 
it was best for you to gang your ain gait and no’ be run- 
ning back every whilie, besides which I saved two penny 
stamps, equal to four bawbees, by not posting my letter till 
now, which up here means a good lang strip of bogie roll for 
the old man to smoke. Now whereas man and particu- 
larly the artist is born to the cultivation of his own soul, 
which he accomplishes at a mature age most satisfactorily 
with the aid of a clay pipe, the said bogie roll is better 
for the world at large than any contribution to an ungrateful 
Post Office. 

“That you have made progress I can well believe without 
being Elijah and the Prophets, and am right glad to think 
you are homesick for dear old Scotland, whose heather is 
to me worth more than the lilies of the Madonna and 
whose porridge would have helped the Children of Israel 
a damned sight more than manna, particularly when taken 
with a sprinkling of raw oatmeal on the top, with the milk 
in a separate mug. As to the Spider Crown at King’s, 
beware lest you be the fly which buzzes back in spite of all 
warnings into the fatal web of Greek, Latin and other 
such cemeteries of human thought. Beware the grey- 
bearded Professors of cabbalistic learning who ensnare the 
innocent youth into their musty libraries, sucking out the 
joy of life and rapture of the open air, and leaving only 
wizened, bloodless shells with spectacles instead of eyes, 
tied hand and foot to their grey and ghostly prison. 

“No, sonny, no Spider Crown for you just yet awhile, 
but the sea you may have and welcome. I am this day 
moving my somewhat rheumatic self to the ancient borough 
of Stonehaven, where it would be a pretty middling artist 
that couldna paint his nut off— seascapes, landscapes, boats, 


68 


HEARTS AND FACES 


figures, faces, whatever you have a mind to, with fish for 
brain food. The salt sea winds will blow the London fog 
out of your lungs and kick your liverish low-in-tone sky 
high sky blue. You will forget the popinjay parade of 
Piccadilly with its peroxide and patchouli. I myself have 
been saving up a clean collar for this summer holiday, and 
though I hate this changing of shirts once a month or so, 
two shirts will I bring out of consideration for my London 
friend. 

“Meet me this day next week at the Inn — I forget its 
name — close to the Town Hall in Market Square. By 
that time I shall have found the right kind of digs. 

“So long, 

“Nathaniel Reid.” 

At the inn they met, and warm was the greeting, Reid 
being just as glad to see his protege as George was to be 
with his Mentor. The world seemed good as they walked 
across Market Square to the rooms selected. It was the 
same old Nathaniel Reid, with the same old bushy beard, 
a trifle thinner in the face perhaps, with deeper crowsfeet 
round the eyes, and a stiffer gait, showing that the rheu- 
matism was no fancy. 

The box came from the station and George was eager to 
unstrap it. 

“Wait, sonny, wait till we have our tea,” said the old 
fellow. “Life is short but Art is eternal. Didna ye see 
them scones ? Man, ye’ll no get scones like yon in London. 
And for breakfast the morn’s morn there’s baps — with flour 
all over them — did iver ye see a bap in London ? And they 
charge ye tuppence there for pastries that are two a penny 
in Stonehaven. Losh, man ! d’ye no smell the finnan haddie ? 
She’s cooking them the now for you and me. Haud a 
wee ! Your sketches can wait. There’s the cups and saucers 
rattlin’, and the girl’s bringin’ up the tray. No, it’s the old 
buddy hersel’. 

“Thank ye, ma’am, it’s a fine day the day, and we’re 
just perishing for our teas. Aye, ma’am, this being the 
occasion of great rejoicing and the return of the prodigal 


HOMESICK 


69 

son we shall slay the fatted calf, or in other words have 
jam. Ay, ay, strawberry will do, and dinna stint the 
butter. Some mair hot water — each o’ us drinks four cups 
— if there’s anything more, we’ll just ring the bell. Now, 
sonny, peg into what’s before you. Forget those ten-course 
London dinners concocted by French poisoners. Here an 
honest Scotswoman covers the good clean tablecloth with 
wholesome fare, and may the Lord give us strength to 
digest these Thy mercies !” 

After the attenuated niceties of London talk, Reid’s 
rough Scots tongue came like one of the old refreshing 
North-easters over the links at Balgownie, blowing health 
into body and soul. The burr of the “r” and the broad 
vowels vibrated with answering thrill in George’s ears and 
heart. 

“Now pass the salt and tell me about Sodom and Go- 
morrah,” continued Reid. “Did ye see Ravin, the French 
artist to whom I gave you a letter? No? Well, that’s 
funny! I hope he’s no done anything foolish. He would 
have helped you whiles. And the same old pictures, I 
suppose, in the National Gallery? Sure’s fate, ye had 
regular debauches on Old Chrome and John Constable — 
ooch ay ! these chaps could paint — to hell with your 
Dutch masters, all except Vermeer van Delft. Well now, 
who’s your favourite? Have you gone daft on Velazquez, 
or do you take fits with Turner? Have you — what’s that 
you’re saying?” 

“Pass the jam, please. Art can wait,” said George. 

Reid, paid back in his own coin, roared with laughter. 

“You’re no such a gowk after all,” he said. “All right, 
sonny, fortify yersel’ while there’s time against the attacks 
to come.” 

When they got down to the sketches, Reid showed him- 
self a keen, sympathetic critic, merciless on any careless 
drawing, but appreciative of the genuine progress made. 
He saw at once that George had worked hard and well. 

“Nothin’ here to greit about,” he said when they had 
turned over the last sketch. “George Grange, ye’ve gone 


70 HEARTS AND FACES 

up top, and though it’s no but a class of one, it does me 
credit. ,, 

It was worth while having slaved away all the winter to 
hear this from his old Mentor. George went to bed after 
the happiest day of his life. 

Next morning and for the next week they were up early, 
getting the atmosphere of the place. Sixteen miles or so 
south of Aberdeen, Stonehaven had a somewhat different 
character from its big, busy neighbour. The East winds 
kept blowing roses from the North Sea into the cheeks of 
bonny lasses, and there were roses too in the gardens, ramb- 
ling roses climbing up the walls built into hill sides so as 
to snare the sun, yet keep out the fiercer storms. The town 
climbed from the harbour up the slopes until you came to 
Beefy Castle, the eyrie of a worthy butcher. Two burns, 
the Cowie and the Carron, mingled their common streams 
just before they joined the sea, which a high bank of stony 
beach held back from the lower streets of the new town. 

The original “Stanehive” was a fishing town nestling 
under red-tiled roofs. Its harbour had a sleepy air except 
when the boats came in with their haul of fish. Then in- 
deed was a busy scene on the quays : women and girls out 
slitting and salting the fish for a voracious market, work- 
ing far into the night under flaring lamps. A tannery and 
a brewery added perceptible strength to the aroma of the 
lower town, but on the upper slopes the air was the air of 
the salt, salt sea. Yet only a few miles inland the sea was 
a sea of oats and barley, and the Slug Road climbed up 
over a ridge of Cairn-mon-Earn fragrant with peat and 
heather, and then down into Banchory and the valley of 
the Dee. 

Along the cliffs to the north and south was a path fringed 
with blue-bells and whins and cornflower and marguerites 
and sometimes wild geraniums. The path to the south led 
to Dunnottar Castle, a famous keep built a thousand years 
ago on a rocky promontory, which every assault save that 
of Cromwell’s Ironsides had found impregnable. Two 
miles further on was Fowl’s Heuch, rising from the deep sea 


HOMESICK 


7 1 


many sheer hundred feet, wherein millions of sea-gulls 
nested and flew out like a whirl of snowdrift if any disturb- 
ing human fired a shot or otherwise roused their clamor- 
ous alarms. Stonehaven’s harbour snuggled under Downie 
Point, whereas an open beach stretched north half a mile 
or so to the tiny harbour of Cowie, near which the low tide 
uncovered rocks slippery with seaweed. Mysterious pools 
enticed the children to search for starfish and anemones 
and soft shelled crabs. On the pier at Cowie harbour, 
small boys fished for the poodlies that swam in millions 
through the clear water. Like the old “Stanehive,” Cowie 
village had its red-tiled roofs, warm against the cool green 
sward of Cowie braes or the grey slaty sea. 

The Cowie burn had its bed alongside the beach, then 
turned up inland past the tennis greens where it yielded 
an astonishing supply of flounders to the summer visitors, 
then half a mile or so to St. Kieran’s Well with rocky shores 
under the railway viaduct and so into a glen of pools for- 
bidden except to privileged rods. A pretty, sparkling stream 
in sunny weather, it was in furious spate after rain with 
dull brown flood wherein swam many sturdy trout. 

The summer visitors possessed the newer town with its 
Seaview Cottages and Highcliff Houses. These visitors 
were not alone from Aberdeen, but came to this bracing 
East from the relaxing West Coast. If the sun shone 
bright on any morning, down they trooped in their straw 
hats and tam-o’-shanters to the beach, to swim and paddle 
and gossip in their family groups. Low tide yielded a 
sandy strip below the pebbles, and then indeed it was pail 
and spade for the little ones. 

From the beach at eleven o’clock or thereabouts, they 
came back a hundred yards to the tennis greens where an 
autocratic, bearded John permitted the younger folk to 
play more or less vigorous games while the fathers and 
uncles and grandfathers fought their battles with bowls. 
The family gatherings were continued on the grassy banks 
beside the courts, and light flirtations carried on from day 
to day, till the hour sacred to food. So they trooped to the 


72 


HEARTS AND FACES 


midday meal. On hot days there was a siesta followed by 
more tennis till tea, after which the townfolk shared the 
courts. Twilight was an hour for walks, or hide and seek 
among the boats at Cowie, or sing-songs along the open 
road. 

Through a second cousinship of Reid’s, George touched 
the fringe of one of these groups, and though he soon was 
too busy to join the fun by day, he was caught in some of 
the evening rambles. The second cousin was the wife of 
a Dr. Middleton, an elderly Glasgow physician, whom 
she had blessed with two attractive grown-up daughters. 
Dr. Middleton was a genial soul whose grey beard and blue 
serge suit covered a stoutish face and figure. Musical 
himself without the capacity to play, he adored his daugh- 
ters, both of whom were expert pianists. Without neglect- 
ing his wife his heart was with the younger folk, and on 
these evening rambles he and his wide-awake had his Kate 
and Elsie on each arm, much to the disgust of swains who 
thought this too much father. 

George, on such walks, escorted Mrs. Middleton, whose 
motherly heart caressed his sensitive soul. Her hair just 
turning grey, her plump face with humorous half-closed 
eyes, her never failing smile, her voice warm with husky 
timbre, her fondness for her own folk and yet her sym- 
pathy for himself the stranger, made an irresistible appeal 
to George, humanized him, roused to new life his stunted 
affections. She drew him out as they walked along, laugh- 
ing him out of his conceits yet fanning his ambition, quot- 
ing Burns against his Browning, and George Macdonald 
against his Meredith. Scots to the very heart of her, she 
loved a wayside thistle more than the gayest gaillardia; 
like many another Scot she had a philosophic turn of mind, 
tempering her faith in the Shorter Catechism with an inter- 
est in Higher Criticism, which as it happened found a vigor- 
ous exponent in the local Free Church minister. 

She herself and her own folk were from Aberdeen, and 
she knew George’s mother better than he had ever known 
her. They had been girls at the same school, and though 


HOMESICK 


73 


marriage had divided them, Mrs. Middleton could well 
imagine the careless, showy woman into which Mrs. Grange 
had grown. With no son of her own and with her daugh- 
ters grown up, she rejoiced in this lad who never had known 
what a mother could be. 

On Sunday afternoon she made him come round with 
Nathaniel Reid and bring the sketches they had made dur- 
ing the week. It was really an excuse to get Nathaniel 
and George to go to church with the family in the evening, 
for Mrs. Middleton was anxious to have all her friends con- 
verted to the up-to-date interpretation of the old religion. 
George endured the sermon because of the evening walk 
that followed — an hour of sympathetic communion with 
this warm-hearted woman. 


CHAPTER X 


mrs. Middleton’s portrait 

W ITH a weather-beaten fisherman as model, Reid 
gave George some lessons in portraiture, which 
were a revelation after his winter of undirected 
schooling. Yet that schooling had not been 
wasted, for it enabled hint to appreciate the methods of 
which Reid was a master. They had a meaning for him 
now and were not merely tricks to imitate. 

When Mrs. Middleton saw their canvases, she asked 
whether she might be their next model, promising to sit as 
still and speak as little as any one could expect from a 
woman of fifty-five, and also that the portraits should re- 
main a state secret unless they were admittedly good, 
in which case they would be purchased by the doctor as a 
birthday present for himself, and in any case the artists 
would be rewarded from day to day by oatcakes of her own 
toasting with apple jelly of her own making, than which 
both George and Nathaniel knew there was nothing more 
delicious. 

Also she would wear her sunbonnet with briar roses tied 
with a ribbon of pale green, and wear the lilac dress with 
silver buckle at her neck which Dr. Middleton had given 
her to wear at the garden parties of the British Association, 
where she made such a sensation that a French professor 
of Psychic Biogenesis asked hei to elope with him, and a 
South American Entomologist, who had travelled half round 
the world to give an address on the habits of Patagonian 
Centipedes forgot to appear at the meeting, for which he 
had been advertised, owing to his preoccupation in holding 
her hand under the pretence of telling her fortune. 

74 


MRS. MIDDLETON’S PORTRAIT 


75 


Reid found a background of hollyhock and larkspur in a 
secluded garden deep-set in a hill just like a quarry, with 
roses on the wall and rosepillars in the borders — a garden 
sweet as Mrs. Middleton herself. Wallflowers, London 
pride, dusty miller, columbines and double daisies were 
grouped in masses of soft colour. 

Here at a time when the rest of the family fancied her at 
her siesta she smiled on them, and with barely a movement 
of her arched lips rippled along in disquisitions on the com- 
parative merits of frankness and flattery, of beauty and 
utility, of cleverness and character, speaking from ripe 
experience and a sense of humour which lit up her face with 
a subtlety such as baffled the skill of even Nathaniel Reid. 

“Ye’re just doing it to spite us,” he said, after the third 
time of sitting and of scraping out. “Ye might as well 
ask an elephant to play T dropped a letter to my love’ 
wi’ a grasshopper as expect us to catch up wi’ the twinkle 
of yer half-hidden eye. No, Mistress Middleton, we can 
paint yer purple an’ fine linen and take a coco-nut shy at 
yer not impossible features, but to reproduce a young heart 
in a middle-aged face and a deep philosophy in smooth red 
cheeks would have given Titian a sair head and made 
Michael Angelo and Leonardo da Vinci feel like fleas trying 
to incubate a crocodile’s egg. Put on yer best Sunday 
expression for sixteen minutes and thirty-two seconds and 
we could give you something that the minister could differ- 
entiate from a well cooked haggis, but dinna expect us to 
reproduce the heavenly choirs on a penny whistle.” 

“The mistake you make,” she answered, “is to think of 
a woman as flesh and blood, whereas she is just a bundle of 
nerves answering to a thousand waves of spiritual influence 
every minute, as any modern philosopher will tell you. 
You think you are painting just so much light and shadow 
and colour, whereas the Me that is Me is not a thing but a 
thought, or rather several hundred thousand billion 
thoughts whirling for a moment or so in a lilac dress under 
a briar rose sunbonnet.” 

“It makes me think of yon spider climbing up ” 


76 


HEARTS AND FACES 


“Where? Where?” she exclaimed, jumping up in an agi- 
tation and shaking her dress. 

“Sit ye doon, sit ye doon,” said Reid, laughing heartily. 
“It’s no a real spider I’m tellin’ ye aboot but the fairy tale 
spider of Robert the Bruce that he watched climbing up in- 
side the cave. Seven times it fell before it reached the 
top. Ye mind the story we learned at school, and how 
Bruce took heart and went out to fight again.” 

“Oh, that spider!” 

Somewhat ashamed, Mrs. Middleton collected herself 
and very soon was the same old smile. 

“I don’t mind mice,” she explained, “but spiders — 
ugh!” 

“Was that flesh and blood, or was that one of yer billion 
thoughts that made ye jump like yon?” said Reid chaf- 
fingly. “Has another Professor of Physiological Meta- 
physics been stuffin’ yer head wi’ yon daft notion at garden 
parties? Next time he tells yon tale about a billion 
thoughts, just try him wi’ yon spider, say in’ ye saw it 
disappearin’ under his collar, and then if ye don’t see him 
skitin’ round the corner to change his shirt, my name’s no 
Nathaniel Reid. No, no — stick to yer flesh and blood and 
be glad ye’ve got it. The highfalutin abstractions of over- 
worked brains in the bald head of an atrophied anatomy 
otherwise named Professor, bear as much resemblance to 
actual fact as a nightmare to love’s young dream.” 

“My dear Nathaniel, why this outburst of fury against 
the unfortunate Professor? Perhaps even a Professor has 
flesh and blood.” 

“Not if he can help it. Not if he can squirt ink into 
his atrophied arteries, and exchange his flesh for parch- 
ment. The worst kind of all comes from Germany, and 
goes about wi’ a microscope in one hand and a mug of beer 
in the other, resurrectin’ Old Masters that were best for- 
gotten and blind to the livin’ Art of to-day with its glory 
in the open air and delight in fresh colour. Unless the 
varnish has begun to grow yellow and made the picture a 
mouldy ruin that the original artist couldna recognise, 


MRS. MIDDLETON’S PORTRAIT 


77 


your Professor wouldna admit its existence as Art at all.” 

“Now,” said Mrs. Middleton slyly, “we are coming to 
the flesh and blood. Some Art critic with the title of Pro- 
fessor ” 

“Wait a bit,” interrupted Reid, with a chuckle of tri- 
umph, “not so fast, not so fast — I’ve got ye this time, you 
and yer billion thoughts.” 

And sure enough, whether by accident or skill, at this 
fourth attempt he had caught something of her expression. 
George gave up his own splurge and watched the old man 
painting with intense rapidity the masses and planes, the 
greys and the translucent colours which together formed 
her picture. It was a masterful impression, and as it grew 
more and more vivid with each touch of the brush, George 
felt as excited as if he were doing it himself. Mrs. Middle- 
ton began to catch the infection. 

“Remember that Eve also was inquisitive. Put a look- 
ing glass in front of me or let me see the portrait, or I shall 
explode.” 

“The older they get, the more vain they are,” said the 
imperturbable Reid. “Trust the Eve of to-day to spoil 
yer best intentions. She snares the young innocent from 
the narrow path with her high heels and slender ankles 
neatly displayed on the broad road. Reaching the age of 
worldly wisdom, otherwise known as thirty, she places her 
sun parasol at an angle of forty-five degrees so that the 
jewelled bracelet on her shapely wrist may catch the eye of 
her elderly admirer and entice him to match it with a pair 
and so ingratiate himself into her well-worn affections. 
She holds him or his successor till she is nearing forty, 
when on the day before her birthday she leads her deluded 
captor to the altar. From that day in the intervals of 
buying expensive hats and gowns she subjects him to an 
inquisition into his past life and future movements until 
the puir body seeks refuge in a more or less natural death — 
Requiescat in pace. The plate will now be handed round for 
the collection, which is on behalf of the tombstone fund 
for the late lamented Adam.” 


78 


HEARTS AND FACES 


“If it were not for the Modern Eve,” retorted Mrs. Mid- 
dleton, “the poorhouse would very soon be known as the 
Artist’s Home. The desire to be thought beautiful has 
buttered the bread of many a painter. Just imagine what 
Art would be to-day if the only commissions were given for 
pictures of apple trees and unsophisticated snakes.” 

“Accept my contrite neck as footstool,” said the old man, 
laying down his palette. “May Eve live a thousand years 
to contrive new vanities for our inspiration and source of 
income. May her wrinkles grow beautiful in the eyes of 
the Art Patron and her scant grey hairs ” 

“Time for tea ! And I see you’ve finished,” said Mrs. 
Middleton, rising with a laugh. Then standing in front of 
her portrait — “Goodness, gracious ! so that is me ! Na- 
thaniel, you have been in Ireland since I last saw you, 
kissing the blarney stone. Can you blame the modern Eve 
for running to the milliner when even a second cousin, old 
enough to know better, makes her think herself twice as 
good looking as she really is?” 

“Twice as good looking, perhaps,” said Reid, with a bow, 
“but never twice as good. I didna kiss the blarney stone, 
but wished a wish at St. Kieran’s Well — the said wish being 
that my rough rheumatic hand might depict for posterity 
something of the charm of a good Scotswoman, whose sweet 
character and human kindness will long remain a fragrant 
memory to those who have been privileged to see her 
bloom.” 

“Thank you, Nathaniel,” she said with sudden tears in 
her eyes. Then with a laugh again, “But what you are 
really thinking of is her toasted cakes and apple jelly.” 

After tea they went for a walk towards Dunnottar Castle 
along the cliffs, Dr. Middleton with Nathaniel Reid, Kate 
and Elsie with George and their mother. They were think- 
ing and talking of the portrait, for the secret had been re- 
vealed and was as wonderful as a new baby. 

“There is one thing I’m glad about,” said Mrs. Middle- 
ton to George, “and that is that you were not jealous.” 

“Jealous of what?” 


MRS. MIDDLETON’S PORTRAIT 


79 


“Why, that Nathaniel’s portrait was better than yours.” 

“Jealous,” he said laughing. “How could I think of such 
a thing. No artist who is an artist can ever be jealous of 
anything good. It can only give him pleasure to see a beauti- 
ful painting. I might as well be jealous of — of that moon 
up there in the clouds. Besides, Mr. Reid is my master and 
I am only a beginner.” 

“Ah, but Nathaniel thinks a lot of you. He has told me 
so many times, though surely he told me not to say so — 
thought perhaps you were conceited enough already. He 
says you have such instinct for colour and composition, and 
what he likes best of all is that you are sincere. You 
worked well during the winter. He is proud to have such 
a pupil.” 

“It’s nice to hear all that,” said George, “but if I had 
known what a long row there is to hoe before an artist can 
do anything worth while, I might never have started out.” 

“Is anything worth while doing if it is easy?” she an- 
swered. “Surely the greatest pleasure lies in the overcoming 
of difficulties. These difficulties arouse one’s energy, and 
it is in this energy that one feels the joy of living.” 

“Most people think that happiness consists in having 
lots of friends.” 

“Yes, but friends fly off into other circles — the girls 
marry, and the men become absorbed in their own work 
and their own homes. Some of them die. If you don’t 
learn to rely on yourself, your friendships are a poor sup- 
port. Learn to do something well and with all your heart 
and then you will find happiness, friends or no friends.” 

“I wish I had known you sooner,” said George, “and 
that you were not going away so soon. You have been so 
good to me and I like talking to you so much. I wish you 
lived in London instead of Glasgow.” 

“If I did, it would not be the same as here,” she an- 
swered. “We are on holiday here, but the wife of a fashion- 
able doctor in a large city has not much time on her 
hands. It is one whirl from morning to night, and if it 
were not for the rest I get here, I should break down. We 


8o 


HEARTS AND FACES 


lead a double life, many of us, and if you saw me in the 
city, you would not recognise the easy-going old lady who 
sat to you for her portrait or sauntered along this path on 
the cliffs. This is our holiday, but in the city we live 
strenuous lives. So too you will find after we are gone that 
sleepy old Stonehaven does not live merely by her summer 
visitors. These fishermen down there have a hard, hard 
life. Look at the white caps there on the sea. It was 
clear and calm an hour ago, but at any moment some fierce 
storm may sweep up.” 

“I used to think of that,” said George, “when I was 
painting that old fisherman — you saw our canvases. The 
lines on his face told of struggles for life on stormy nights. 
The old man did not speak much about them, but one day 
I found him on the beach mending nets. He had his 
daughter with him, married to a fisherman like himself, 
with a baby in her arms. She was sitting in the pebbles 
near by, crooning an old lullaby — do you know it? — the 
melody is one of the loveliest I ever heard. The words 
begin : 

“ ‘Oh can ye sew cushions and can ye sew sheets, 

And can ye sing ballaloo gin the bairnie greits/ 

She was rocking the baby to sleep in her arms, and I 
never heard anything so sad as when she came to the words : 

“ ‘Sing ballaloo, lammie. 

Sing ballaloo, dear, 

Does wee lammie ken 
That its daddie’s no here? 

Ye're rockin' fu' sweetly 
On mammie’s warm knee, 

But daddie's a-rockin' 

Upon the saut sea.' 

It just brought the tears to my eyes. And then came the 
refrain : 

“‘Heigh O, heugh O, what’ll I do wi' ye? 

Black's the life that I lead wi’ ye. 


MRS. MIDDLETON’S PORTRAIT 


81 


Many o’ ye, little to gie ye, 

Heigh O, heugh O, what’ll I do wi’ ye?’” 

“It’s always been the same,” said Mrs. Middleton. 
“That’s why the old Scots songs have such a sad note 
running through them. That sea we are looking at is the 
same wild sea Sir Patrick Spens sailed on ‘to Norroway 
o’er the foam’ — you know the old ballad — I always think 
of it when I walk on this path along the cliffs and look 
away over to the sky line. You know it, don’t you ?” 

“By heart,” said George. 

“Say it over.” 

“It’s the end part I like the best: 

“ ‘They hadna sail’d a league, a league, 

A league but barely three, 

Till loud and boisterous grew the wind 
And gurly grew the sea. 

Oh laith, laith were our gude Scots lords 
To weet their cork heel’d shoon, 

But lang ere a’ the play was play’d 
They wat their hats abune. 

Oh ! lang, lang may the ladies sit 
Wi’ their fans intil their hand 
Before they see Sir Patrick Spens 
Come sailing to the land. 

Half owre, half owre to Aberdour 
’Tis fifty fathoms deep; 

And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens 
Wi’ the Scots lords at his feet.’ ” 

“Ugh ! It makes me shudder. If I believed in second 
sight, I would say there was some tragedy at hand. Let’s 
think of something more cheerful. John,” she called to 
Dr. Middleton, “say something to cheer us up. George 
and I are beginning to get morbid.” 

“Look at that moon,” said Dr. Middleton, turning back 
and pointing with his stick. “In after years we shall all 
remember this day by the harvest moon shining up there in 
solitary splendour and throwing its path of silver across 
the sea.” 


CHAPTER XI 


THE CLIFFS AT DUNNOTTAR 

T HIS simple pastoral had lasted nearly two months 
without interruption except for rainy days. 
Then the Middletons went back to Glasgow and 
the summer visitors thinned down to a barely 
perceptible strip upon the beach. The days grew shorter 
and the nights more chill. Yet the touch of autumn in the 
leaves made this country world if anything more beautiful, 
and George realised with a pang he must soon leave for 
the South. 

The failure of his Mrs. Middleton’s portrait had driven 
him back to landscape. Each day he carried his easel to 
Dunnottar Castle, which with its bold ruins based on wave- 
beaten crags made an imaginative subject. The glamour 
of romance added an additional charm to the scene, for the 
keep itself was said to be a thousand years old and the 
later castle dated back five centuries to William Keith, 
Great Marischal of Scotland, whose family stronghold it 
remained. 

In Cromwell’s time it safeguarded the Scottish regalia, 
then in the days of the Restoration it was a Covenanter’s 
prison, many a sad tale being told of its dark dungeons. 
For nearly two hundred years it had lain dismantled, but 
the builders of these old days built well and its weather- 
beaten stones still defied the elements. It seemed a visible 
embodiment of that motto of the Earls Marischal which 
George in heart had taken for his own : “They haif said. 
Quhat saye they? Lat yame saye.” 

Reid went with George to study cloud effects and so the 
hours sped in good company. The picture shaped up well 

82 


THE CLIFFS AT DUNNOTTAR 83 

and George began to feel a growing confidence and decision. 
They naturally talked of future plans. 

“Shall I come back again here next summer?” he 
asked. 

“Maybe yes and maybe no,” said Reid. “If ye take an 
old fellow’s advice, it’ll be no. Cut loose from the apron- 
strings and rin along by yersel’. Go to yon farm in 
the Chilterns and paint some other kind of landscapes. 
Ye’ll be apt to get into a few slick tricks if ye paint always 
the same kind — just chic instead of real drawing and real 
study. Besides, there’s no sayin’ that the old man will be 
here next year. I’ve had my warnin’s of late, sonny, and 
I’m no long for this world. The end may come soon or it 
may keep off for a while, but it’s cornin’, sure’s fate. So I 
want ye to learn to stand on yer ain feet.” 

“But you don’t seem to have many more friends than I 
have. Can I come up to be near you in case you were 
sick?” 

“That’s a kind thought, but it’s no use. The doctor 
says that when it does come, it will come sudden. Pouf! 
and the light’s out. I’m no greitin’. There’s always been 
plenty to do, and very little pain.” 

Once or twice on their way back to the town they passed 
a young woman whose face George seemed to remember 
but could not locate. She was high-heeled and over-dressed 
and her hair jarred with her complexion. 

“Yon town bird does not look for country birds out 
here,” said Reid, looking back at her after the third time 
of meeting. “I dinna mind seein’ her at the tennis green 
either, nor yet on the beach. My, yon’s a dreary place 
now.” 

Very soon it began to rain, and later in the evening 
George solved the mystery of the lady of the cliff. Just 
before closing time they repaired to the inn for a “Deoch an’ 
Doris,” or nightcap. Behind the bar she was handing out 
drinks — the same remembered fair who had served 
George eighteen months before at the saloon in Aberdeen 
that day of the fight between Sands, the tailor’s son, and 


84 


HEARTS AND FACES 


the English medical, Wolseley Greville. Now that he could 
see her closely the dark rings round her eyes were darker, 
and the temple and cheek bones were more pronounced. 
No rouge could bring the bloom to her faded face. She 
must be on the down grade, for this was a vulgar haunt 
compared to the fashionable bar in Aberdeen. 

As he sipped his toddy, George recalled to mind the scene 
of which she had formed part, and the face of Wolseley 
Greville flashed back upon him. He remembered her “My, 
but ain’t he got money!” covering a multitude of sins. 
He remembered the leering face and the limping figure 
in vivid contrast with the clean-cut, manly Sands. He 
shuddered as he thought of the Lady Might-Have-Been, 
poor little golden-haired Molly Arnold, the victim of this 
English cad. Then he recollected the story that this bar- 
maid also had disappeared from Aberdeen at the same 
time as Wolseley Greville, supposedly in his company. 

He had deserted her, no doubt, after he had had his pleas- 
ure, and she was back at her old job rather the worse for 
wear. Yes, it was the same girl — the same voice — the same 
turn of the hand. 

The face of Wolseley Greville haunted him all night. 

Next morning they were off again to Dunnottar, where 
George had only another day’s work to finish his picture. 
Progress at first was slow. He had not slept well, and not 
till the light was fading and he could barely see to mix his 
colours was the last touch put. He had found his point 
of view on a broad ledge below the path on the cliff, con- 
cealed from passers-by and yet only twenty feet or so 
beneath the upper edge. Reid was lying on his back, paint- 
ing the flame of the setting sun reflected on a crescent of 
cirrus clouds. Overhead the gulls were poising and swoop- 
ing as if their mission were to reconnoitre these strange 
spies on their domain — then screeched and flew out of 
sight. 

“Storm brewing!” said Reid, “the gulls are flying in- 
land.” 

“No matter now,” said George, “the picture is finished. 


THE CLIFFS AT DUNNOTTAR 


85 


But you are right. Look at the whitecaps coming up on 
the sea, and that Penzance boat out there is pitching pretty 
lively. Look, they have turned and are making for 
harbour.” 

Reid rose up slowly and came over to look at George’s 
canvas. 

“Ay, sonny, ye’d better leave it now. Another touch 
might spoil it. We’ll have a smoke and then pack up for 
home.” 

Sitting there in the calm enjoyment of well earned pipes, 
George and Reid smoked for a while in silence. Dusk 
came down upon them quickly, so after ten minutes or so 
they packed up and were about to leave when on the path 
above they heard voices. 

“Bide a wee,” said Reid, “wait till they have gone.” 

It was evidently a woman and a man, and they were 
quarrelling. 

“Hist!” said George. “It’s yon barmaid at the inn.” 

She was doing most of the talking. The man who was 
with her was English from his accent; and, when she called 
him Wolseley, George knew who it must be. 

“I gave up my position for you,” she was saying, “and 
look what I have come to now — serving drinks to dirty 
farmers and loafers, not to gentlemen. You promised to 
take care of me, but you gave me the slip after a fortnight 
and left me to pay the bills. The diamonds you gave me 
were fakes. You never meant to marry me in spite of your 
written word ” 

“I’ll pay you for the letters.” 

“You’ll pay, sure enough, more than you think. I know 
now where your dirty money comes from. I know who 
gives you your allowance — your mother. I’ve got her ad- 
dress. She’ll make you act square, she has promised me. 
I had a letter from her last week.” 

“Damn you!” 

“Swear away! Words don’t hurt me any more. It’s 
deeds now. It has taken me over a year to do it, but I’ve 
got you now, right up against the wall.” 


86 


HEARTS AND FACES 


“What does she say?” 

“Oh, you think I’m such a fool as to carry the letter 
with me, so that you could steal it from me. Think I’m 
so green? No, but I know it by heart. It came all the 
way from India, from Simla. Ah, you see I have got the 
address. You thought she was at a safe distance, did 
you ?” 

“Well, what did she say?” 

“She said that ‘she was heartbroken by my pitiful story, 
and it seemed too cruel to be true, but that the letter I 
sent’ — I sent her one that I could spare — ‘was in your hand- 
writing, and if the other copied letters were correct, she 
was left without a shadow of defence for you/ Well, do 
you want any more?” 

“Spit it out.” 

“Polite as usual. She went on to say that if she could 
possibly come to England, she would do so at once, but her 
husband was dangerously ill and she dared not leave him. 
What made my case so terribly sad was that you could not 
make the reparation which would save my good name — 
you were already married ” 

“Well, if she knows that already, what’s the use of try- 
ing to blackmail me?” 

“Don’t be in such a hurry. It’s not blackmail that 
brought me here, it’s to tell you how I mean to get even 
with you.” 

“Be quick then; I’ve got to catch the 9.15 to Aber- 
deen.” 

“The letter went on, that from what she could hear you 
had deserted your wife. But she had borne with your 
heartless conduct long enough, and you would have no 
more money from her to betray unfortunate women ” 

“So that’s her game!” 

“She had therefore written to her lawyers to investigate 
my case, and if they found my statements correct, she had 
instructed them to cancel the allowance she had hitherto 
made you, and transfer to me such alimony ” 

“Hell! is that what you asked me to come here for?” 


THE CLIFFS AT DUNNOTTAR 


87 


“Yes, a week ago, but you only came_to-day. I have 
risked losing my place to come here every afternoon, wait- 
ing for you.’’ 

“I didn’t get your note till yesterday.” 

“Drunk and disorderly, I suppose.” 

“See the kind of husband you’ve escaped,” he sneered. 
“Well, what do you want now you think you’ve got the 
money ?” 

“I want to know the whole truth — were you married 
when you took me away with you last year?” 

“Yes.” 

There was a silence. 

“Let’s get out of this,” whispered Reid. 

Before George had time to reply, the man’s voice came 
sharply : 

“Let go my arm !” 

“Is she still alive?” in a voice just as sharp. 

“Yes, and a kid too, damn it!” 

“Oh, you unmitigated cad! That settles it! You never 
had a heart, but I can hurt you through your pocket. I’ll 
fix this up with those lawyers ” 

“Then you haven’t seen them yet?” 

“It won’t be long now.” 

“You never shall.” 

“Who will stop me?” 

“I shall,” fiercely. 

“You cannot.” 

“I can — here. No one knows I came here.” 

There was a sound of struggling and stifled screams. 

“Come on! Let’s stop this!” cried George, and rushed 
up the little path leading from their ledge to the top of the 
cliff. 

He was just in time, for, as he reached the top, the man 
had the woman gagged and was pushing her struggling 
figure to the edge. 

“Stop! Stop!” cried George, and rushed to the rescue. 

Startled at this sudden appearance, Wolseley Greville — 
for it was he — dropped the unfortunate woman and bolted 


88 


HEARTS AND FACES 


as fast as his limp would let him. George pursued him for 
a short distance, and then came back breathless to find 
that Reid had dragged her to a less dangerous spot and 
was loosening the handkerchief that gagged her. No sooner 
was her mouth free than she struggled to her feet and 
gazed wildly about her. But the excitement had evidently 
been too much for her, and before they could catch her 
she had fallen to the ground in a dead faint. 

“Quick! some water !” cried Reid, loosening the buckle 
at her neck. 

Before George could move, water was dashed on her face 
in the form of rain, the first downpour of a terrific storm 
which had crept upon them unawares. In a few minutes 
they were all drenched to the skin, and the woman re- 
covered consciousness to find she was as wet as if she had 
really been thrown into the sea. The roar of the thunder 
and the rapid succession of forked lightning drove out of 
her mind for the moment her recent struggle. It was the 
natural instinct for all of them to seek shelter, and so with 
the rain lashing their backs they stumbled along the path 
towards Stonehaven. 

“Shall we go in here ?” shouted George as they approached 
a house. 

“No use now,” she called back. “I’m wet through. Bet- 
ter go back to the inn.” 

They were three very bedraggled objects when they 
reached the Market Square, but the rain still poured in 
torrents, so there was no one to see them. By the way 
she shook hands as they parted, George and Reid knew she 
was thanking them. But it was no time for ceremonies, 
so as soon as the door had closed behind her, they hurried 
off to their lodgings, where in dry clothes over a blazing 
fire they talked over the unexpected adventure. 

“Now ye come to describe him, I know the fellow,” said 
Reid. “Good riddance of bad rubbish! Let’s hope he 
caught the 9.15 and a damned good chill as well. Yon 
poor lammie had a narrow squeak, but she’s well able to 
take care o’ hersel’, never fear. But this is the end of our 


THE CLIFFS AT DUNNOTTAR 89 

sketching, sonny. We’re in for a spell of bad weather — I 
saw it in yon clouds and I feel it in my old bones. Better 
pack up the morn’s morn and make for the Sunny South. 
Meanwhile the old man will retire to the seclusion of three 
warm blankets, where with judicious doses of quinine and 
Lochnagar he will endeavour to sweat out the rheumatism 
that is within him, world without end, Amen.” 

So it was that for the second time they parted, George 
carrying with him a feeling that two years of experience 
had been crowded into these last few months. 

More than ever the face of Wolseley Greville haunted 
his dreams. Some fate seemed to be bringing their two 
lives together. Perhaps he might never meet the man 
again, but deep down in his heart George had a strange 
unconquerable belief that yet again on some other day they 
would come into bitter conflict. 


CHAPTER XII 


RAVIN, ARTIST 

I F life for George in London had sauntered on much 
longer without more intimate friendship, he would 
perhaps have grown to that shy attitude to Art which 
the book-worm hold to letters, touching only by such 
fine emotion as can reach the heart by the eye. Life, how- 
ever, had another step in view and soon had him dancing 
in a more populous thoroughfare. 

Ravin it was that did it, Ravin, that artist to whom 
Reid had given George an introduction when first he came 
to London. Had Ravin been a phlegmatic Englishman 
this story might have never been written; but don’t you 
know how the heart opens to French suavity, French live- 
liness and unaffected gesture? Ravin came into this young 
Scot’s life just as a beam of sunshine on a summer morning 
steals through your jealous shutters. You laugh and open 
the window to the blessed air. 

George noticed the name first in a magazine, signed on 
a story illustration. It was a drawing delightful in light 
and shade. Ravin was evidently well worth knowing. 
George had kept a note of the address, and on calling again 
— it was a Sunday — he was scowled at by a dingy servant. 

"Is Mr. Ravin ” 

“Name, please?” 

“Kindly take in that letter,” he said, as the girl sniffed 
at the envelope. 

After a minute or so “Entrez!” came a musical voice 
from far away, and George felt his way through the pas- 
sage. Out of a door on his left emerged a tall fair man 
whose moustache and imperial gave him a distinguished air 

90 


RAVIN, ARTIST 


9i 


in spite of his shirt-sleeves. In the left hand was a palette, 
and in the right welcome. 

“Excuse my lookingness,” said the owner of the hand, 
with a pleasant foreign accent. “This is my day for 
painting.” 

George found himself in a gallery overlooking a large 
studio linked by a flight of stairs. One corner was filled 
with an etching press; in another stood a table wet with 
clay; a platform occupied the third; and in the fourth, 
indeed all over the floor, were costumes and magazines 
and papers chaotic. On the platform sat a model, evi- 
dently posing for the nude, but at the moment draped in a 
kimono. 

“All right, Miss Lollipop — artist,” as the model looked 
up. 

“Not Miss Lollipop,” said that lady crustily, “Miss Lola 
Poultenay.” 

“Miss Lola Poultry, Mr. — Mr. — pardon , j’ai oublie. Ah, 
Mr. Grange. Excuse me that my room so untidy, but my 
man so dirty I send him to the workhouse to clean up. 
Par ici ; mind the tea kettle, and the bananas. Miss 
Lolipot sits on the cigarettes. Merci. You will draw, your- 
self, riest-ce pas? She is a stunner, you bet! Ah, I will 
paint from her a knock-out of the deepest dye !” 

Smiling at the Frenchman and feeling himself at once 
at ease, George sauntered round the room studying the 
pictures on the wall. Pastels they were for the most part, 
each with its thrill. Here were two sketches side by 
side, showing an avenue of chimney-pots, one of tender 
blues evidently done in earliest morning twilight, the other 
of the same subject in a glow of sunset’s cadmiums 
and reds. Ravin must be an artist whose pleasure was 
in the accidents of light, not a mere subject thumper. 
These sketches called him back to the first lesson Reid 
had given him, when he made the great discovery that 
trees were not all green, but just the light that played on 
them. And yet here too were subjects : this, for instance, 
two little mites burning farthing dips and sending up masses 


92 


HEARTS AND FACES 


over the body of a dead canary ; and this, a crowded street 
with flaring lamps, the life thrown up by contrast with 
that coffin, carried unnoticed through its midst. On the 
easel was a pastel just commenced. 

“Ripping !” said George, half holding his breath. 

“You like it? I am glad. But I am not practise. This 
black and white take it all out of me. You know I 
illustrate for books and magazines. Come now, Miss — 
work !” 

The artist drew back a curtain which had been pulled 
in case of draught, showing a recess in which a bookcase 
and a bed were ranged beside an old-fashioned fire-place. 
This recess was lit up from the back of the house by a 
window, the panes of which were stained with cobalt. Its 
colour, mingled with the warm light of the fire, made the 
model’s flesh as one might dream Queen Mab. 

“I couldn’t do that in monochrome,” said George, who 
had unpocketed his pencil. 

“Try pastel,” said the Frenchman, pushing over a box. 

It was the first time George had used this medium, but 
after half an hour had passed the Frenchman saw he was 
no fool. 

“I like your colour,” he nodded. “It is deefflcult to 
use pastel. You paint? Ah, you pupil of Reid. He 
very sincere, and it is honour to be his friend. You must 
keep shadow luminous. See, you are too dark there; 
don’t mix your colour so much; lose the edges more. 
So.” 

Ravin swept his flannel sleeves over George’s sketch, 
and in the smudge slung in strong masses of colour. 

The model grew impatient and demanded rest. 

“All right. Oh blow! There’s the bell. Ah, I forgot 
— the hairdresser.” 

“The who?” cried Miss Poultenay, starting up in alarm. 

“Oh, all right, he is my friend. Put on some dresses.” 

“But, Mr. Ravin, you forget ! I am no ordinary 
model.” 

“It’s all right, I tell you,” said Ravin. “I start another 


RAVIN, ARTIST 93 

sketch. But this hairdresser, he is my friend. Be quick, 
miss.” 

The model ran pouting behind the curtain, and Ravin 
chuckled as he stepped upstairs to let in the new visitor. 

Coming himself of an old French family, the artist was 
too Bohemian to think of caste. He took all human nature 
as it came. A barber was an artist in hair, and this par- 
ticular barber was a clever fellow-countryman. Every 
style of coiffure, from Phidias to the present day, was at 
his finger-ends. 

Miss Poultenay reappeared in disarray of dress, much 
more suggestive than mere nudity. Out of the costumes 
which had carpeted the floor she had raked a Carmen 
skirt, reaching only to the knees. Above was a low-cut 
evening blouse. Her hair which had hitherto been tied 
up so as to leave the figure clear, now hung loose. She 
meant to impress the barber. And she succeeded. 

Aristide Theophile Clemengeau was propriety itself, and 
hardly dared to look her way. He talked of his wife, to 
show the model that his virtue was impregnable, while she 
in her turn became more amiable, plumping herself, during 
a rest, on a chair beside him. 

Ravin relieved the situation. 

“Just five minutes more before dinner !” he cried. “Come 
up, Miss Potsey, posez-vous.” 

Once more Miss Poultenay fell into her fascinating at- 
titude, and once more she was disturbed. The dingy maid 
appeared at the top of the stairs. 

“Peter come back from the work’us, sir,” she panted. 

Ravin burst into a roar of laughter. 

“Pet-aire!” he shouted. 

“My gracious!” cried the model. “Who’s this now?” 

“All right, Miss Popny,” said the artist, “he not eat 
you. He my man who all dirty. I send him to the work- 
house to clean up.” 

“Mr. Ravin,” said the lady stiffly, “I am not used to 
workhouse company. If I had only known!” 

“Oh, go on!” said Ravin, rushing impetuously upstairs. 


94 


HEARTS AND FACES 


In a moment he was back again, dragging by the ear 
a wizened, knock-kneed old man in corduroy suit, protesting 
with toothless jaws. 

“Look at yourself, darling,” he said, dragging his victim 
to a mirror. 

“Gawd strike me dead!” mumbled the old man, strug- 
gling free. “Ain’t I fit for the Queen’s Palace? Got any- 
think to eat, gov’nor?” Then he caught sight of Carmen. 
“ ’Ullo, ladies present. Oh, only a model !” 

This was too much for Miss Poultenay, who sprang down 
from her throne and angrily drew back the curtain. Ravin 
was in too high spirits to care, and went to the cupboard 
for wine to celebrate the return. Peter however expostu- 
lated. 

“Oh ’ere, gov’nor, I didn’t say ‘drink.’ I’m teetot’ler 
now, so ’elp me. ’Ere, wot’s this?” kicking something 
wrapped in an old newspaper. 

“That’s rumpsteak,” cried Ravin, pushing him aside. 
“Hurry up and light the stove.” 

The artist danced all round the studio, throwing knives 
and plates and forks on the platform, now to be his table. 

Dinner so produced might seem unappetizing, but Ravin 
was a perfect cook. Miss Poultenay, who emerged in full 
dress buttoning her gloves for an offended exit, sniffed the 
air with a more tender nose. Then, as she saw that plates 
were laid for five, she melted. 

“Ready!” shouted the host. 

Dignity dropped all further pretence and buckled to. 
It was the most amusing meal that George had ever shared. 

“Now Pet-aire,” said Ravin, after the first sigh of satis- 
faction. “Tell how they treat you.” 

“Treat me, gov’nor? Look at me trouses!” 

“Mr. Ravin !” exclaimed Miss Poultenay, who could now 
afford to reassert herself. 

“Aw right, miss,” said Peter, askance. “Don’t stay 
fer me. As I was a-saying, I goes to the work’us having 
been kicked out of here, an’ I sees at the gate a bloated 
cove in a blue suit, an’ I says to him, ‘Wot’s the price of 


RAVIN, ARTIST 


95 


free lodgin’s ’ere?’ ‘Git out/ says 'e, ‘this ain't no 
menagerie.' ‘Git out yerself,' says I, ‘I’m a free-born 
British subjick, an' I deman's me rights.’ ‘Wot’s yer 
round ?' says 'e. ‘Round ?' says I, ‘I ain’t got no 
round. I ain’t a tramp. I'm a factotum.’ ‘Aw right,' 
says 'e, an’ puts me down in 'is books as a teetot’ler. Well, 
that kin’ o’ guv me a persition, an’ I takes a front pew at 
Bible readin’s an’ edoocashional lectures.” 

Peter paused for breath. 

“Got a fag, gov’nor?” 

After a few puffs at his cigarette, the old man went on : 

“Yes, they enlightens the min’s o’ free-born British sub- 
jicks with edoocashional lectures. Ol’ chap came larst Mon- 
day to lecture on turbine ingins, haw, haw!” 

“Go on!” 

“Gawd’s truth,” said the old man. “Free-born British 
subjicks! Well, 'e gits on the platform an’ says that 
turbine ingins is ‘ ’orizontal.’ H 'Orizontal be blowed !’ says 
I, gittin’ up, an’ wi’ that I gives ’em a lecture on turbine 
ingins wot made the ol’ chap look silly. As if I didn’t 
know better, me bein’ an inventor. The work’us chaps 
was so pleased that they promotes me.” 

“Promoted you!” 

“Yes, window cleaner to the establishment. But they 
ain’t guv me no wages, an’ I ain’t goin’ back to work for 
noffink. Good-bye, miss, adoo!” 

Miss Poultenay was sailing out. 

“When shall I come again ?” she whispered. 

“I’ll write,” said Ravin, giving her some silver. 

“Only eight shillings !” she said loudly, looking at the 
money with a hard, unlovely expression. “I always get 
double for Sundays.” 

Ravin flushed and handed her some more. 

“What a swindle!” said George, when she had gone. 
“These models are only too glad to get Sunday sittings.” 

“Never mind,” said Ravin. “She starve. You notice 
how she eat? She is a hactress out of engagement. She 
get the sack for not kissing the manager.” 


HEARTS AND FACES 


96 

Such was his generous excuse for her sharp practice. 
Poor Ravin, as George found out, was at the mercy of his 
soft heart. As evening came round, the studio was filled 
with the oddest characters, clearly come on the chance of a 
meal. Night fell, and still they stayed, till at last when 
one took off his jacket and pillowed it on the floor, George 
realised that the good-natured Frenchman gave a roof 
to unfortunate fellows out of a job: actors, musicians, 
waiters, shop assistants, the motliest and most pathetic 
crowd in London. 

George spent many pleasant Sundays with his new friend, 
painting and making odd acquaintances. The Frenchman 
was so ingenuous, and at the same time had such insight 
into human nature that his conversation was always de- 
lightful. His generosity made him somewhat hard of ac- 
cess, for so open-handed was he when he did own money 
that debts remained unpaid — and any visitor might prove 
a dun. Finding that Ravin was visitor at an evening 
class for black and white, George joined this, not so 
much because he fancied costume as to keep in touch 
with one whom he sincerely liked. They often went 
round to Frascati’s after the class, or knocked about 
in Soho, studying the curious life of London’s foreign 
quarter. 

Nowhere did Ravin’s admirable character shine so 
bright as in that hermitage of squalor separating Oxford 
Street from Leicester Square, in which all the exiles of the 
world foregather and feel homesick. Exiles they are, 
though they may nominally have come as foreign citizens 
to the great metropolis. They are in London, not of it 
— French for the most part in language, and wholly French 
in heart. Take, for instance, that jewel-cutter over 
there, watering, as he has watered for these sixty years, 
his shilling claret at his shilling dinner. Sixty years he 
has been in England, but his English still is limited to 
“Good morning.” He is but one of a thousand who for 
some forgotten reason have left the land they never can 
forget. 


RAVIN, ARTIST 


9 7 


Most curious of all the Soho restaurants that Ravin 
haunted was one whose custom was frequented by the 
outcasts of Society — thieves, bullies, forgers, blackmailers 
— hardly one who did not lie within the shadow of the 
law. Ravin might be aristocratic by birth, and yet he 
was good fellow to such as these. If they were outcast, 
he too was Bohemian, keeping by instinct to the laws, 
but reckless of the customs, of Society. They knew he 
was an artist and admitted him to their acquaintance. 
As a comrade, he might bring his friends. This confidence 
was not abused ; and, if he did bring any one, it was some 
unsophisticated person such as George. 

To George, with his slim knowledge of provincial life, 
such traffic of the underworld was a revelation. Half a 
dozen visits here told him more of the human character 
than as many years among conventions. A convict’s 
features were rather seared by punishment than vice, so 
fine is the hair dividing character from crime. And yet 
there was a nameless Type that held them all together. 
It would have been an outrage openly to sketch them, but 
as he drew their shapes from memory George found this 
Something wonderfully fugitive. Still, it was there and 
in their presence unmistakable. 

These outcasts held their curious etiquette. The first 
commandment was that none must speak too loud. Walls 
have ears, and ears are spies. Angry voices might be 
echoed by a policeman’s whistle. Detectives knew the 
haunt, but they found it saved them so much trouble when 
a sinner was required that they never interfered, even 
though coin changed hands over many a game of 
cards. » 

Ravin knew this etiquette, and followed it with a frank- 
ness that sometimes startled the less initiated George. 
They were gossiping one evening with a genial Frenchman 
who had manslaughter and New Caledonia behind his back, 
when a well-built fellow entered the restaurant. Ravin 
at the moment made no remark. After a while he whis- 
pered to George : 


98 


HEARTS AND FACES 


“That’s Buriot, the famous wrestler.” 

The new-comer had joined another group, but presently 
he saluted Ravin. 

“Monsieur Ravin, I think. You are the artist, is it 
not, who drew a picture of me at the International Tourna- 
ment, for an illustrated paper?” 

“You are right, Monsieur Buriot !” 

“An excellent likeness. I am interested in art and, 
as a matter of fact, deal in pictures also. May I have 
the pleasure of your further acquaintance? I should like 
to visit you in your studio.” 

“Impossible,” replied Ravin, bowing politely. 

“Impossible? But you are an artist, are you not?” 

“Yes,” replied the artist quite calmly, “but you are a 
thief.” 

George held his breath. To his surprise the wrestler 
merely shrugged his shoulders. 

“Very well,” he said, “I will bring you some engravings 
here to-morrow.” 

It was agreed, and Buriot returned to his group. 

“Bravo,” said the convict when he had gone. “Don’t 
let any of us maquereaux come to your studio. You are 
a sensible man, Monsieur Ravin.” 

“You treated him rather roughly,” said George when 
they left the restaurant. 

Ravin laughed. 

“You not know,” he said. “You English are what 
you call sentimentalist. I had one of these thieves round 
at my studio once — he was an acrobat and said he was 
hard up, so I give him a sitting. At the end I give him 
ten bob, but he say, ‘Excuse me, that not enough. I want 
a quid.’ I not know what to do, for he was a big man 
who meant business. So I say to him, ‘All right, I go 
fetch my purse upstairs.’ So I go upstairs and I fetch 
my revolver and I come down and I say, ‘You damn son of 
a gun, you go out quick or you go to hell.’ Well, he went 
pretty quick, but I ask no more maquereaux to my studio. 
In the cafe it is different, heinf’ 


RAVIN, ARTIST 


99 


Such company might have done George harm had he 
not had the instinct of the true artist. If he had confined 
his study only to professional models, he might have 
wasted years before he understood expression. The vacu- 
ous stare at Js. 6d. a day has only surface value and 
little enough at that. But in this outcast herd the sculptor 
Passion had moulded features massively, and George began 
to show in his work vitality which school could never 
teach him. 

Remote as was this underworld from his other life, 
George yet found a thread connecting. He was sipping 
coffee one day with Ravin, when the door swung open 
and in came a heavy-coated man, yet not so heavy-coated 
as to hide his limp. The face was unforgettable. It was 
Wolseley Greville. 

What was there so sinister about the face? Even in 
that confraternity of bullies he seemed to be disliked — 
thumbs were pointed and whispers were heard. 

“Let’s get out of this,” said George. 

When they were out into the open he breathed as one 
who had escaped from danger. 

“What do you know of that man? The clean-shaven 
one with the coat and the limp — came in just before we 
went out?” 

“Ah, you ask me another, I not know him, and I not 
want to know him. These bullies, they know his business 
and they are afraid. You never can tell, but don’t he 
look a devil?” 

“Perhaps mixed up with the police.” 

“No, I don’t think, else he would be dead by now — 
those chaps too quick with their knives. No, I think he’s 
in the same game, but his face is new to me. You wait 
a bit — I find out.” 

One day George noticed at the black and white class 
in front of him a girl with auburn hair. She was so busy 
with her drawing that he could not even see her profile. 
Then some one knocked an easel over. The girl turned 


IOO 


HEARTS AND FACES 


for a moment — a moment of disappointment. Quite a com- 
mon face in that aureole of hair. 

“Come to me to-morrow afternoon,” said Ravin when 
he came round. “I do some modelling lately and I want 
to show you a figure. I think you like it.” 

George was glad of the invitation, for Ravin had of 
recent Sundays been so inaccessible that friendship seemed 
impracticable. This time the servant must have had orders 
to let him in, for she flung the door open. 

Near the platform was a statuette, nude figure of a 
young girl, standing with feet together and leaning back 
with draped and outstretched arms, a butterfly as it were, 
delicately tinted here and there, with hair of reddish gold. 

“Fine ! Fine !” he exclaimed. 

“Ah, good!” said Ravin, for he loved praise. “But it 
not quite original. The red I got partly from the baking 
and I touch up the hair. I see something like it in Paris, 
note quite the same.” 

“With red hair?” 

“No, but she has — I mean the girl. She will be here 
in a minute and then see for yourself. Ripping figure ! 
Perhaps you see her at the school yesterday. She would 
like to be artist, but I don’t know.” 

“The spirit is willing ” 

“I think so. But it is deeflicult to tell her. You see, 
I like her. She good girl. Here she comes! Her name 
is Miss Marriott.” 

It was the girl with the auburn hair. 

She bowed to George without speaking, and after a few 
minutes came from behind the curtain. Certainly a lovely 
figure. As he got out his sketch book, George wondered 
how he could have thought her face common. Sensi- 
ble too, for she talked of pictures well. After half 
an hour came the rest, and Miss Marriott slipped a wrap 
over her figure. 

“May I see your sketches?” she said, coming over to 
George. 

George gave his book shyly. 


RAVIN, ARTIST 


IOI 


“Why,” she exclaimed, “how like your work is to one 
of Mr. Ravin’s pupils!” 

“I am one of his pupils,” replied George. 

“Perhaps that is it,” she said. “There are some others 
here. Just look at them and see if you don’t think so too.” 

Stepping to a drawer, she brought out a portfolio of 
sketches. 

“Am I as bad as that?” said George, as he turned 
over the loose sheets. “After all, there is nothing like 
hearing the truth.” 

“That’s what I think,” replied Miss Marriott, smiling 
at Ravin. “Tell me what is wrong with them. I rather 
like them. But I am only a model.” 

“These, I should say, are the work of one who has 
started to draw too late in life. The manner shows a 
cramped hand. They are done by some one who has 
artistic feeling, but without construction, and heavy. A 
woman, I should say, and no good — never will be. To 
think I can only draw like that!” 

He shut the portfolio abruptly, throwing his cigarette 
into the fire. 

“It’s all right,” said Miss Marriott, laughing. “It was 
just a joke. You don’t draw in the least like that. I only 
wanted to hear the truth about them. They are my own 
sketches. You know I try to be an artist too. And now, 
Mr. Ravin,” turning to the artist, “I think I had better go 
on posing.” 

Ravin shrugged his shoulders at George. 

“You done it now!” 

They sketched in silence. 

After a little, George said : 

“You pose well. I hope you are as model in other 
ways.” 

“A good woman can never be a good model,” was the 
reply. “She shows her age too soon.” 

“Then you don’t like to think that you’ll grow old?” 

“At the first crow’s-foot I shall drown myself.” 

“Why not marry instead?” 


102 


HEARTS AND FACES 


“Another road to the same place.” 

“Well, your mother married,” protested George. 

“No, she didn’t,” said Miss Marriott abruptly. 

George dropped his pencil in surprise. 

“You believe in facing facts,” he said. 

“My mother died of facts. It was a bitter winter. They 
found us on the Embankment.” 

Another silence. 

“Let’s go to the Queen’s Hall,” said Ravin. “I’m sick 
of work. Miss Marriott come with us, hein?” 

They went to the concert and then saw the girl to her 
home. Before George separated from Ravin he apologised 
for having put his foot in it. 

“All right, old man,” said the Frenchman. “You not 
know women yet. They are full of damn tricks. But she’s 
a nice girl, and she got a ripping figure!” 


CHAPTER XIII 


THE MODEL AT THE LANGHAM 

M ISS MARRIOTT’S laugh rang in George’s ears 
all next day. Not that the laugh was very 
musical — an untrained contralto, yet so rich 
that its roughness attracted. 

"I wish I had her pluck,” he mused. 

In the evening he sauntered to the Langham, an artists’ 
club to which he had recently been elected. A model sat 
there every evening except Friday, and though the pose 
was often set to suit the needs of some pot-boiler, one could 
use it as a study. The studio itself was well arranged, 
with a separate light for each stool, and for those who 
wished costumes there was a good historical collection. 

The glare from a restaurant reminded him that he was 
hungry. His watch showed half an hour to spare, so he 
went in. 

“Coffee, please, roll and butter.” 

While the waiter fetched his order, George mechanically 
turned over the leaves of his sketch-book. They were 
for the most part pencil studies, done in an hour or two at 
the Langham or at Ravin’s, chiefly nudes. Hitherto he 
had scanned these with uncritical eye. The glamour of 
self flatters our own work. Miss Marriott, however, had 
helped him to the truth. His drawing was unsympathetic, 
correct in proportion and true enough in the values, but 
— still Ravin had told him to stick to it. So too had Reid. 
Perhaps the sentiment would come. Perhaps! He had 
been nearly two years now at art, and it was long in coming. 

The clatter of the waiter made him look up at a girl 
almost a woman, on the seat opposite. 

103 


104 


HEARTS AND FACES 


“Worth a sketch/’ he thought as he stirred his coffee. 

But first the inner man. He could study the girl quietly 
as he ate, and do her from memory. He must practise 
this memory drawing. 

Looking at her over the rim of his cup, he saw her smiling, 
and blushed. She on her part seemed more than ever 
amused. After a minute she said: 

“Excuse my speaking to you. You are an artist, aren’t 
you? You have a mirror behind you, and I couldn’t help 
seeing your sketches. Oh, it’s all right, you didn’t shock 
me — I am an artist’s model myself. May I look at your 
sketch-book ?” 

She put out her hand, and he could hardly refuse. 

As she turned it over he noticed that her hands were 
well-shaped and dainty. 

“That,” she said, stopping at one page. “Surely that’s 
the Langham.” 

“Yes,” said George, leaning over to see. “There was 
a rotten model one night, so I sketched the room itself. 
Rather a fine effect of light and shade — quite Rembrandt- 
esque.” 

She leaned a little, too, and her hair touched his. Hers 
was crisp and golden, perhaps a shade too golden. He 
drew back uneasily. 

“What a coincidence!” she said. “I’m posing there 
to-night — for this week. You must come and draw me. 
But perhaps you will think me rotten too.” 

Vain fishing! 

“What do you like best,” she went on, “painting or 
drawing ?” 

“At night I prefer to draw.” 

“I sit for lots of artists, though I have not been doing 
this long. Let me write my name and address in your 
book — Ethel Swallow, 510 King’s Road, Chelsea. Pretty 
busy just now, but I’m free on Sundays as a rule. Oh, 
it’s time to go.” 

She prepared for flight. 

She was distinctly rapid. 


THE MODEL AT THE LANGHAM 


105 


However, there was no harm in walking with her. 

“Two bills together, sir?” said the waiter. 

Miss Swallow buttoned her gloves very hard. 

There was no help for it. George said “Yes,” and 
silently cursed the curse of an Aberdonian from the bottom 
of his purse. 

As they walked along Oxford Street people turned to 
look at his companion. 

“N.H.B. — not ’arf bad,” said an approving news-boy. 

“I wonder that you walk,” remarked George, inclined 
to be malicious. “I should have thought you preferred 
your brougham.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Why, I thought all models were actresses once, and all 
actresses have broughams.” 

“I left mine in Paris.” She tossed her head. 

“So you know, Paris.” 

“My father was French.” 

French? Quite possible. That unusual taste in dress 
— unusual at any rate for one of her profession. The 
average model slips round from studio to studio in the 
average sack. 

French ? Perhaps, though there was little trace of accent 
in her English. 

She must be over twenty — there was the least touch of 
artificial bloom on that pretty cheek. 

He was relieved when they arrived. 

This being Monday, every one except the artist who 
arranged the pose was locked out of the studio in the 
anteroom till the model should be in position, and as it 
happened there was some delay. An impatient mob waited 
at the door. 

“What’s the model to be this week?” growled some one. 
“Another girl, I suppose. Why can’t they have a cavalry- 
man, or something sensible?” 

“You bet it’s a girl, and a nude,” said another. “It’s 
Ben Jones’s week, and his dealer won’t have anything 
else. She’ll be lying down, so that when he gets home 


106 HEARTS AND FACES 

he can slick in a lake shore and some trees and a couple of 
swans.” 

“Any one ever seen a picture by Ben without swans? 
I’d like to wring their damned necks.” 

Just then the key turned in the door. They trooped in 
and jostled for seats. 

Yes, she was nude and lying down. Where Ben Jones 
had picked his seat one could imagine a lake-shore and trees 
and the swans; or one could imagine the shore of the sea. 

Her figure was rather more full than George expected, but 
it was all in perfect proportion. 

Her pose was really beautiful. She was lying full length 
on her side, with right hip swung forward and her head 
in hair massed like sand-drift. The colour, even under the 
incandescent glare, was delicate and tender, the shadows 
transparent, while pale greens and blues from a tapestry 
behind interlaced rose-madder. 

At the end of the first hour George was in full swing, 
eager to express the spirit of the figure. Some moved 
into the next room to smoke and chat, but George stayed 
on at his stool, feeling out the form as he remembered it. 
As he leaned over his sketch-book, a wave of warmth dis- 
turbed him. She was looking over his shoulder. 

“Charming!” she said, and sat down on the stool beside 
him. 

The wrap she wore was half open. A man behind 
leaned over the desk and winked. 

“Very !” he said in her ear. 

As she turned George slipped away, glad of this diver- 
sion. 

Then the second hour came and his annoyance was for- 
gotten. 

The pose was so good that the evening was over ere he 
was aware. 

“Ripping model!” was the general verdict. 

George looked over the magazines before he put on his 
coat. He thought he was the last to leave, when Miss 
Swallow suddenly flung out of the dressing-room. 


THE MODEL AT THE LANGHAM 


107 


“You live in Chelsea, too?” she said. 

“No — that is, yes.” 

He walked unwillingly with her to Oxford Circus. 

“Shall we take a cab?” she said. 

“I keep my shillings for my work,” was his excuse. 

Miss Swallow pouted. 

“Oh, come on! You can knock it off my money when 
you give me a sitting.” 

But George had had experience in the restaurant, and 
they took a bus. On the way she talked of the artists to 
whom she sat, criticising with as much wit as impertinence. 

“Penny for your thoughts,” she said suddenly. 

“I — oh, I — I was thinking.” 

“What?” 

“What a model thinks of.” 

“What is that?” 

“Why,” said George maliciously again, “she thinks and 
thinks, and counts the seconds and the minutes and the 
hours till they mount up to Js. 6d.” 

“You are nasty.” 

“And yet you asked for my escort.” 

“Did I?” 

They reached her door. 

“Good night. Miss Swallow,” he said, as she turned the 
key. 

“Good night. Remember you’ve promised me a sit- 
ting.” 

“Yes, I’ll write to you.” 

He was glad of the first corner. 

Yet as he turned it something stopped him, made him 
look back. 

She had disappeared, but at the same door there was 
another figure — a figure that he knew. At any rate he had 
seen that coat before, surely — where? Of course, in Soho 
— that heavy-coated figure with the limp. 

The door opened, the man stepped in — the limp was 
unmistakable. Wolseley Greville again! 

Was there any connexion between these two? 


io8 


HEARTS AND FACES 


Would he ever come across her again? Not at the 
Langham — he had other things to do every night that 
week. He had promised her a sitting, at least she said 
he had. What infernal cheek she had! Of course she 
had to be pushing to get work — there were so many models. 
Funny she had no accent, though her father was French. 
Must ask Ravin’s advice. Ah, the very man! 


CHAPTER XIV 


ONE MORE UNFORTUNATE 

G EORGE was now just of the age and in the mood 
to feel the glamour of sex. Incessant work 
may for a while distract the mind from petticoats, 
but only for a while. The mind has a frame 
built of flesh and blood that cannot be sustained or satis- 
fied with work alone. It has its hours for food and its 
seasons for the thrill of mating. One and twenty may 
induce itself to be ascetic, and might be more ascetic still 
in a world of ugly faces, but in this city of the fair how 
can it possibly escape ? 

The unrest that took hold of him was far too deep for 
him to fathom. He wondered if he was unwell because 
sometimes he could not work. He forgot that work 
was not the summit of existence. Not knowing what to 
do, he wandered out into the streets, by preference where 
there were lights and the companionship of many faces, 
Frascati’s was a favourite refuge, with its music and its 
babel. 

Then when the music ended he would perambulate the 
pavements, studying the current of humanity that swept 
along — lovers here, monotonously married there, penuri- 
ous and pampered, country folk and city-bred. It 
was the lovers that he most liked to look at, wondering if 
ever he might have a girl upon his arm, and, if so, would 
she be fair or dark? What would they talk about? 
Would she understand him? Would he be the first to be 
her lover? Would they exchange confessions? Would 
she ever throw him over? Could he do without her if 
she did ? 


109 


no 


HEARTS AND FACES 


Some day, perhaps, she would sit with him by their 
own fireside, and they would talk for hours and hours and 
hours of art, and loveliness, and death — the great things. 
Their souls would — 

Bump ! he went into a lamp-post and so back to life. 

Only for a while. 

He would treat her very tenderly, not asking too curious 
questions about her past life, shielding her from the world. 
They would have a cosy room to sit and talk in, a big 
studio with an ingle-nook. 

He would work with a new spirit and she would be his 
model. He would paint such pictures as would make 
him famous. How proud she would be of him and how 
proud he would be of his beautiful — 

Bump again! Damn those lamp-posts! 

On such a saunter he found himself one night that week 
in Wardour Street, half-dreaming, till he woke to find 
himself face to face with some one who was speaking to 
him. It was a woman, and a woman of the street. 

In such a situation he would usually have stepped aside 
and so escaped her, but there was something in the face 
of this one that arrested. * 

The woman turned her profile to him — her deadliest 
snare. Surely there was something in that face he once 
had seen before — where was it? Who could she be? 
Wasn’t it — ah, yes! 

He memorised every line of her, trembling a little, but 
gradually recovering control. She on her part was sure 
of him — he was not her first captive. 

“Well,” she said, turning her face again. 

It was the Lady Might-Have-Been, not quite so fair, 
but still so very fair; not quite so fine, older — good God, 
how old ! 

“Well,” she said, “you ought to know me now.” 

“Yes,” said George, “now I know you, but how you 
have changed!” 

It was her turn to tremble. The misery of such as these 
is to have no memory for faces. All her colour fled from her. 


ONE MORE UNFORTUNATE 


hi 


“What do you mean? I never saw you before,” she 
stuttered, stepping back. 

“I never thought to find you here,” said George. “Your 
name is Molly Arnold. You come from Aberdeen ” 

Before he could restrain her she was gone. 

Poor girl ! This was her descent ! 

The Lady Might-Have-Been! 

And that low blackguard, Wolseley Greville, who had 
ruined her as he had ruined that barmaid and many another 
— he had lost his income but was there to be no real reckon- 
ing for him? 

Like enough not till he got to hell. 

Molly’s hell had come sooner. 

George wondered what he would have done suppose 
she had not run away. Suppose she had remembered 
him and made this the excuse for further acquaintance. 
If she had been a thorough bad lot that might have been 
awkward. 

He was well out of it. 

She might have been a coward, but so, too, was he him- 
self. He must nerve himself to study men and women 
right down to their hearts if he was to be a true artist. 
Why shouldn’t he speak to such as she — make friends of 
such as she, or .at least acquaintance ? Life was made 
up of such people. 

He had no relations to worry about his reputation — he 
could go where he liked, with whom he liked. 

All the same, it might end in trouble. These women had 
bullies. 

Here again was the shadow of Wolseley Greville? There 
was a devil if ever there was a devil. 

Better not touch pitch ! 

Such thoughts whirling through his brain, George made 
his way back to his rooms, and as he sat over his fire he 
drew the face of this poor unfortunate. 

As he drew, a phrase or two that rhymed came to his 
lips, and with his pencil he put them down and strung 
them into a few verses. This is how they ran : 


1 12 


HEARTS AND FACES 


“Aye, with what grace she grew among the green, 
Delirious grasses that she ran between. 

(O lovesick Rush, whom fairer hast thou seen?) 

But out alack ! she loitered to the town 
And laid a-low her little country crown 
(Yet was more queenly as she rustled down). 

And out alack ! she lingered at the fair 

And won the brightness that no maid should wear 

(And knew the darkness that no maid should dare). 

Yet with what grace she grew among the green, 
Delirious grasses that she ran between. 

(O lovesick Rush, whom fairer hast thou seen?) 


CHAPTER XV 


ETHEL SWALLOW 


G RANGE! Grange !” 

George was walking along the Strand when 
he heard a familiar voice calling him from the 
top of a bus. It was Ravin who tumbled down 
the steps to join him. The Frenchman was dressed in 
frock coat and silk hat, a world too large. 

“I found a neegger,” he said, laughing. “Oh, that con- 
founded heel!” 

He slipped off an elastic-side boot, shook out a stone, 
and put it on again. 

Ravin was certainly unique. 

“Yes,” he continued, wiping his hands on his pocket- 
handkerchief, “I found a neegger in the Strand.” 

“You don’t mean me?” said George. 

“No, a black charcoal neegger from the Sudan. I 
think him cannibal, and he pray to my statue with red 
hair. Oh, he is lovely. Come and have some grub, and 
I tell you about him.” 

As they sat in a Soho restaurant, Ravin told his story. 
Walking along the Strand the day before, he had met a 
six foot negro, gaily robed, followed by a curious crowd. 
He was just the type the artist wanted for an illustration, 
so Ravin stopped him. The man had come from the 
Sudan, thinking that London, the place where the rich 
English came from, must be paved with gold. Lo, the poor 
negro, sadly undeceived! Ravin came to his rescue and 
let him sleep in his studio till he found a job. 

“And Petaire — he mad. He swear so ’orrible I plaster 
his mouth with clay. 'Gawd’s truth!’ he say, ‘me a free- 

113 


HEARTS AND FACES 


1 14 

born British subjick, come back from the work’us to sich 
degradation! Me sleep in the same room as that ’ere 
halien himmigrant wot prays to foreign hidols! ’E’s wus 
than a blackbeetle. Good-bye, gov’nor, adoo !’ And 
so Petaire leave me. But he come back soon. He get 
hungry.” 

“Can the nigger speak French?” 

“Only a leetle. Not like I speak English. But I soon 
understand. I speak English pretty well, don’t I ?” he added, 
as George involuntarily smiled. 

“First-rate,” said George. “Just a little accent sometimes, 
but one hardly notices.” 

“Ah, yes, but I know I sometimes make faux pas. Last 
night I dine with my friend Mrs. Grosvenor, awful tip-top 
swell, and we talk about the portraits by Lely at Hampton 
Court. ‘They are regular knock-out, these beauties/ I 
say. T could ravish them every one/ She laugh. Now is it 
not English to ravish — ravisserf” 

“Yes,” said George, laughing also, “but not quite in the 
way you mean. Never mind, your friend will give you 
many invitations on the chance of your making such 
mistakes. But talking of French and English, I have an 
experience to tell you of. I want your advice.” 

George told him of the model at the Langham, told the 
whole story of the evening, all except the recognition of 
Wolseley Greville. It might have been coincidence that 
these two lived in the same house — they might not even 
know each other. 

“Look here, Grange,” said Ravin. “You be careful 
with some of these little devils. If she good model give 
her a sitting. But there are plenty good model. Have you 
a sketch of her?” 

George had his book with him. 

“Ah, she good figure. By gad, your drawing improve! 
That’s the best one you done. Shall we write to her for 
next Sunday? It’s all right at my studio If she try 
any game, I chuck her out, you bet. Perhaps we have 
some fun. I write to her that you give me her name.” 


ETHEL SWALLOW 


US 

On Sunday George was punctual, not unwilling to meet 
the girl again. She had been forward, but she was un- 
commonly pretty — that golden hair and that figure. He 
had an instinct that he was on the edge of adventure. 

Raving studio was untidier than ever, and as she had 
not yet arrived they put in the time trying to disentangle 
things. 

“Where is your nigger?” said George. 

“Olh, he got a job in Soho, but he still sleep here at 
night. Don’t you smell him? Petaire stay way, but he 
come back to-night, you bet. He hungry, surely.” 

A tinkle, and Ethel Swallow arrived, without apologies. 

She looked suspiciously at the disarray. George had 
half hoped to find her as he had left her, but instead she 
snubbed him. 

“You here?” She nodded stiffly. “Ah, to be sure, Mr. 
Ravin said in his note you had given him my name.” 

“My friend is French,” said George. “By the way, you 
can speak to him in his own language.” 

“How delightful!” she exclaimed, turning to Ravin. “Je 
vous demande pardon pour mes fautes d’expression. J’ai 
oublie tant ” 

And so on. 

She certainly spoke fluently. Perhaps her French 
father — 

Another arrow. 

“My friend,” said George, “is the son of the great ex- 
plorer, Andre Ravin, you know, who led the famous North 
Pole expedition.” 

“Andre Ravin!” she cried, clasping her hands. “The 
son of the great explorer! How interesting!” 

“Oh, it is nothing,” said F_avin, somewhat embarrassed, 
and busied himself with his palette. “The dressing-room 
is there,” he added, pointing to the recess. 

“What do you want — costume or figure?” 

“Figure, please, miss.” 

“Who the deuce is this explorer?” he whispered, when 
she had withdrawn. 


HEARTS AND FACES 


ii 6 

“Jiggered if I know,” returned George. “I invented him. 
Keep it up.” 

“Ah, yes,” said Ravin as she reappeared in a wrap. 
“My father, he married a Esquimau. I am the only 
painter in London whose mother a Esquimau. That is why 
I have peculiar style.” 

“Indeed! And how is that?” 

“My friend is a portrait painter,” said George solemnly. 
“He is quite the rage just now. All Society people want 
him to do their portraits.” 

“Oh, not all. Only few!” said Ravin deprecatingly. 

Her eyes swept round the studio. It was certainly unlike 
that of a fashionable portrait painter. 

“Not here, of course,” George hastened to explain. “This 
is only where he works on Sunday. He has a large studio 
in Bond Street.” 

Miss Swallow brightened. 

“I wonder,” she said, “have you ever met my old 
friend, Lady Mackintosh Macduff?” 

“Lady Macduffintosh ?” said Ravin, scratching his head. 
“Of course! I paint her portrait, hein?” Turning to 
George, “It is somewhere here.” 

“Yes, you put it there against the wall. You told me 
you would not send it because she never paid you.” 

“Never paid you!” she cried. Surely, surely not. I 
used to know her quite well, and she had lots of money.” 

“I assure you,” said Ravin. “I show you her portrait. 
You see!” 

He brought out a canvas, of Miss Marriott as it hap- 
pened, in a white silk dress. 

Miss Swallow was too clever for them. 

“Not very like her,” she said. “It’s nice in colour, 
but — I don’t wish to be rude — perhaps it is the Esquimau 
style.” 

Ravin looked foolish. 

“I will tell her what you say. She like it herself. She 
will be interested to know you pose for picture. You good 
friends with her ?” 


ETHEL SWALLOW 


ii 7 

“We were, but I am afraid she has forgotten me — ever 
since the crash.” 

“Oh, you have a crash?” 

“Yes, we were in the same set. Lady Macduff helped 
my mother to choose the satin for my presentation gown. 
I was to have been presented at Court, when suddenly 
poor father died, leaving us nothing but debts. It seems 
ages ago, and yet it is only a year. Of course we were 
dropped by everybody.” 

“Your mother alive?” 

“Yes — that is, no — ” she hesitated a little. “It is a sad 
story.” 

An awkward pause. 

Ravin took up his palette. 

“Now, miss, we want to work — on this platform here. 
By gad ! isn’t she ripping ! Here, I give you something to 
sit on — arms around the ankles — so.” 

She was certainly very beautiful. 

While Ravin was directing the pose, George had oppor- 
tunity to study her more closely. 

“You don’t wear any rings,” he remarked after a while, 
as Ravin rearranged her hands. 

His easel was at the side, and she could not turn without 
disturbing the pose, but she looked at him through the 
corners of her eyes. 

“Don’t you think my hands quite nice enough without 
my needing rings?” she answered. “Besides, I am not 
engaged.” 

“Quite right !” said Ravin. “Don’t be in a hurry. You 
got lots of time yet, and men are horrid.” 

“Some men certainly are,” she said, still eyeing George. 

For an hour or so they worked on without speaking. 
Then Ravin said : 

“Tell me your mother’s sad story.” 

“My mother?” She seemed taken a little aback, then 
remembered. “Ah, yes! Poor mother! When my father 
died, and we discovered our real circumstances, the shock 
was so great that she had to go into a nursing home, a 


n8 


HEARTS AND FACES 


private asylum. And I had to do something to earn my 
living. As it happened, the daughter of the landlady 
where I had lodgings was an artists’ model, so I accepted 
sittings also. I was so alone and so friendless. But now 
I have lots of engagements. Everybody wants me to sit 
to them.” 

“I am not surprise,” said Ravin. “You beautiful colour, 
and your figure is regular knock-out. You so different from 
most girls of your age — more mature ” 

“How old do you think I am ?” 

“In years, or in experience?” said George. 

“How cynical he is !” She spoke to Ravin. “Has he 
met with a disappointment?” 

Ravin protested. 

“Don’t mind him, miss. He don’t know how to talk 
to pretty girl like you. He just fresh to London from some 
half-civilised country way up near the North Pole.” 

“Ah,” she said quickly, “another Esquimau.” 

The two conspirators looked at each other and laughed. 

“You altogether too smart,” said Ravin. “Come on — 
we have some lunch now, and you tell us how old you are 
when you have tasted my omelet.” 

Slipping a wrap over her shoulders, she stepped down 
from the platform, and as the Frenchman fetched out 
plates and things for the midday meal, she wandered round 
examining the canvases upon the walls, or piled upon the 
floor. In spite of their earlier attempt to tidy up, the studio 
was still in a deplorable chaos. 

“Well, Mr. Ravin !” she suddenly exclaimed, as she 
picked up a piece of paper from a heap in a particularly 
dusty corner. “You really are the limit!” 

Ravin stepped over with a plate in each hand to see 
what she had found. It was a cheque for fifty pounds. 

“Oh, blow!” he said quite casually, “just put it into 
my waistcoat pocket. That is nothing. You see, we are 
not such big liars as you think.” 

That fifty pounds clearly added mightily to her respect, 
and perhaps as well, for the Esquimau story was really 


ETHEL SWALLOW 


1 19 

rather thin. George, too, came in for some of this new 
sunshine. She was too much of a woman not to see that 
he was handsome, and perhaps he, too, was rich. His 
study of her figure was so sympathetic that she felt she 
had made an impression, however much he might pretend 
to sneer. Still Ravin, as the man who could leave cheques 
lying loose in dusty corners, was the best game of all, so 
Ravin got the most attention. He was born to flatter, and 
she was clay to the potter. 

As the day drew on, the little story-teller had woven 
a romance around herself. Ravin led her on, perfect artist 
in sympathy. When the time came for her to leave she 
might well imagine she had captured him. 

“I suppose you don’t want my escort again,” said George, 
as she swept out. 

“No, thanks. But you may whistle for a hansom.” 

When she had gone the two men laughed till their sides 
were sore. 

“She is glory hallelujah!” roared Ravin. 

“Shall we have her again?” 

“You bet! She got the stunningest colour I ever see. 
Oh, by gad! I do a picture from her which they will 
buy for the Luxembourg. And you, too ! Your progress is 
merveilleux. You catch her hair simply tip-top. And the 
shadow — so luminous, so transparent!” 

“Well, I must be going now,” said George, to cover his 
embarrassment. 

“Oh, blow! You need not go. I have some grub. 
Beside, I want to show you my neegger. He come back 
soon.” 

They talked and talked till it grew late. One or two 
of the familiar out-o’-works came in, and took their places 
by the wall. Peter, too, returned, very tired and very 
hungry, able only to drop in his corner and munch his piece 
of bread. When it was nearly eleven the bell rang. 

“It’s that neegger,” said Ravin angrily, as he went 
up the stairs to open the door. “Why he not come in by 
the back? I give him what for.” 


120 


HEARTS AND FACES 


George thought he might as well go now, but he was 
curious to see this negro, whose romantic story entitled 
him to some little sympathy. 

Ravin fumbled at the door, unable to find the latch. 
Then he got it, lifted it, opened the door and started back. 

“Mon Dieu!” he exclaimed, holding up the candle. “Miss 
Swallow !” 

“Hush ! May I come in — just a minute? You are alone, 
aren’t you?” 

Whether she might or not, she came, Ravin at her heels. 

On hearing her voice, George slipped back into the 
corner where he had been sitting. The only light in the 
big studio came from and was half concealed in the recess, 
the candle flickering out in the draught. 

“Oh, blow ! I have no match.” 

“Never mind,” she said. “It is so nice and mysterious 
here. How I should love to live in a place like this.” 

“But tell me how you come so late ?” 

“Oh, Mr. Ravin, it’s all so sudden that I can hardly 
think. I went to the concert at the Queen’s Hall and 
then to supper, and when I got back I found myself locked 
out. I had not paid my rent last week, but I thought my 
landlady was a friend and would wait. I walked up and 
down thinking what to do, but it was no use. I had spent 
all my money on the ticket and the cabs and the supper, 
and so I could not go to an hotel. How could I find new 
lodgings without any luggage and so late at night — a 
Sunday, too. I was in despair, when suddenly I thought 
of you. You were so kind, and I thought you might have 
a spare room just for one night. I knew I could trust to 
your honour.” 

Ravin coughed. George shrank still further out of 
sight. 

“I have no spare room,” said Ravin. “If you like you 
can sleep in that recess till to-morrow. The floor will do 
for me.” 

“Oh, how good of you! I shall find new rooms to- 
morrow. I know I shall be safe with you.” 


ETHEL SWALLOW 


121 


“Your beauty such, I worship from afar.” 

“And there will be a curtain between us, won’t there?” 

“Of course. Take care you not trip.” 

She was coming cautiously down the dark stair. As she 
reached the floor and made for the recess, she noticed 
something moving near the wall of the studio. 

“What, what is that?” 

“That ? Oh, that is only my man, Petaire.” 

She shrieked as she swerved from the uncanny heap. 
This brought her to another of the sleepers. 

“And that?” 

“Oh, that is only the soleecitor.” 

“And that one there?” 

“I think that is the sweep.” 

A heavy step was heard on the stair. It was the nigger 
who had come in through the door which the embarrassed 
Ravin had forgot to shut. In the uncertain light the dark 
face of the negro loomed satanic. No wonder that Miss 
Swallow went into hysterics. 

She came to rapidly and cried to be let out. 

“To be sure,” said Ravin politely. Then, at the top of the 
stair, he shouted, “Grange! You there still?” 

“Yes,” replied George, emerging from his corner. 

“Well,” said Ravin, “this lady want some one to take 
her home.” 


CHAPTER XVI 


EXPLANATIONS 


E THEL was already in the street before George had 
reached the door. 

“Don’t go,” said Ravin, holding him back, “I 
only joking.” 

“It’s no joke,” said George firmly. “I mean to have it 
out with her.” 

Ravin shrugged his shoulders. 

“Be careful,” was all he said. 

She had not turned the corner of the street and George 
soon caught her up. She stiffened as she saw him, chin in 
the air. 

“Look here, Miss Swallow,” said George thickly. “This 
is not good enough. I give you a recommendation to a 
friend and this is the game you play. You have mistaken 
your vocation. You are not meant for Chelsea.” 

“Go on.” 

“If this story is known,” he continued, “you will be 
shown the door by every decent artist. And these stories 
do get known. I hope to goodness you are only a little fool. 
But your behaviour is precious fishy.” 

“Anything else?” 

“Yes,” he said, goaded to rudeness. “You call yourself 
Miss Swallow — why not Mrs.?” 

Under the lamplight he saw her turn pale. She stood 
still and burst into tears. 

George was prepared for any kind of defence but this. 
He couldn’t think what to do. 

How far Ethel was really crying only the Recording 
Angel knows. The human scribe claims no omniscience 

122 


EXPLANATIONS 


123 

where a woman is concerned. Suffice it to say that she 
might have been heart-broken. 

“Here — here — ” he said, “don’t do that. Here, tell 
me what’s the matter. I was rather rough on you. Come, 
now, be a good girl, pull yourself together.” 

That made no difference. 

He caught her by the arm, but she cried out: 

“Don’t! it hurts!” 

“Look here,” he said in desperation. “You mustn’t, 
mustn’t go on like this. Let’s talk it over quietly. There’s 
a pub just round the corner, quite quiet, where we can have 
a chat. You look ill — you need some brandy. Come now, 
be sensible.” 

“Very well,” she said, still sobbing, but drying her eyes 
and moving on with him. 

It was still a quarter of an hour to closing time, and as 
luck would have it they found a quiet corner in the room of 
the saloon bar. She was deathly white, still trembling, and 
the brandy was real medicine. 

“I know what you think of me,” she said at last. “I 
don’t blame you. But just let me show you something.” 

She unbuttoned the wrist of her blouse, baring her arm. 
It was black with bruises. 

“You see now why I said it hurt when you caught my 
arm just now.” 

“Who did that? It must have been since this after- 
noon.” 

“Just two hours ago, done by a brute, my husband — yes, 
I am married — he twisted my arm and beat me till I told 
him where my money was, every penny of it. Perhaps you 
understand now.” 

“You mean ” 

“I had had enough of it, slaving all day to earn more 
drink for him. And this time — to-night — he was just like a 
devil. Look at that bruise there, that was to get my last 
penny from me. No, no! No more home for me!” 

She was more collected now. 

a 


“So that was why- 


124 


HEARTS AND FACES 


“Yes, that was why. As soon as he was gone I came 
away as well, for good or evil, whichever way you look at it. 
I had to get a bed somehow — without a penny to pay for it. 
Well, what else can a woman do in London? Then, I 
thought, since I had to go to the bad, I might as well begin 
with some one that I liked, and who seemed to like me.” 

“Ravin !” 

“Yes. Just my luck — whoever would have thought he 
kept a common lodging house!” 

“Not quite that,” said George, with a flicker of a smile. 
“Perhaps it has been all for the best. Don’t you think 
after all you had better go back home ?” 

“Home ! No, no ! that’s done with. You don’t know my 
husband.” 

George suddenly understood. He remembered the limp- 
ing figure at her door. 

“Perhaps I do,” he said. 

“What? How?” 

“Are you — is his name Wolseley Greville?” 

“Why yes,” she said excitedly. “Why then, you under- 
stand. You see Pm not the only one to blame. You know 
what a cad he is — oh, I could kill him !” 

“Take care,” said George, remembering the struggle on 
the cliffs of Dunnottar. “He might kill you.” 

“Time’s up!” said the barman, turning out the lights. 

They rose and walked along the street together. It was 
a clear moonlight night and the quiet air seemed to subdue 
her. He felt that she was calmer. 

“We’ve got to make the best of things,” he said. “You 
say you won’t go back to your husband. I don’t want you 
to go to the devil just yet, and it’s getting late. You’ll have 
to sleep at an hotel, and at this time of night the only kind 
of place that you could easily get into would be a station 
hotel. They will expect you to have some sort of luggage. 
So come along with me and let me lend you a travelling 
bag — something to save appearances.” 

“Yes, but how about the hotel bill ? I am absolutely with- 
out a penny — dead honest !” 


EXPLANATIONS 


125 


“My dear girl, I shall see you through. Let’s see — one 
— two — three — four pounds seventeen and six. I can go 
to my bank to-morrow — this will do for you.” 

“What!” she said. “All that? After all you know 
of me?” 

“Why yes, it’s nothing.” 

For a minute or two she was silent. Then she 
said : 

“You are a good sort. I wish there were more like you. 
But, I say, I can’t do this.” 

“Do what?” 

“Take this money without ” 

“Without what?” 

She stopped and faced him ; then looked down. 

He understood. A great temptation came upon him. 
Then he restrained himself. 

“If you really wish to give me something for the money,” 
he said, “you can do it this way. Tell me your story, the 
story of your life, without holding anything back — not like 
this afternoon — you were fooling us then. I’m a writer, 
you know, as well as an artist, and a real-life story is of use 
to me. I shan’t ever give you away. Come now, there’s 
a bargain. We shall be quits then.” 

She looked up in his face, evidently relieved. 

“Where shall I begin?” she said. 

“Wherever you like,” he answered. “Just tell me what 
you remember. It will help to pass the time as we walk 
along to the street where I live.” 

They paced along slowly, side by side. 

“He was a brute all through. I knew it when I married 
him, but he was rich — at least it seemed to me then — 
and he really married me. I wouldn’t have done it else, 
and there was a baby — that was in Paris. He beat me 
almost from the first, but baby lived. Then he made me 
put her out to nurse, and when the woman wanted to 
adopt her, he made me agree — we had no money left. 
Then he deserted me. I had to live, and I was earning 
money as a model when he found me out. He is really not 


126 HEARTS AND FACES 

altogether bad, but he has drinking fits and then he is the 
very devil. ,, 

“Never mind your husband. Tell me about yourself 
before you met him.” 

“Oh, then ! I was such a silly thing” 

She smiled and after a little hesitation poured out her 
tale so simply and so straightforwardly that he knew what 
she said was true. 

“I never had much fun as a girl — there was too much 
work to do about the house — mother took in lodgers. Our 
neighbours were unkind and said things about mother 
and would not let the other girls have anything to do with 
me. But I was prettier than most of them and that made 
them jealous, so I had my revenge. And then I was fond 
of reading, not Shakespeare and that sort of person, but 
stories — did you ever read the Family Herald Supplement ? 
— such as ‘Across Her Path/ Oh, you would like them ; at 
least I did. When I read those stories I felt I could live 
with earls and duchesses just as mother once had done. 
Mother had been a lady’s maid, to real ladies with titles; 
she was once in Buckingham Palace. Then she met a 
Frenchman, quite well off, she said, who made love to her 
and married her secretly, or rather didn’t marry her — that 
was the trouble. It seems there is a law that if a French 
Catholic — he was a Roman Catholic — marries an English 
Protestant without the consent of his parents, the marriage 
is not really legal. So when he had got tired of mother, 
he left her and me — an illegitimate. 

“As far back as I can remember, we just took in lodgers, 
and I was the unpaid slavey as soon as I left school. Mother 
got into the habit of tippling, and if it hadn’t been for me 
we shouldn’t have been able to keep them. Some of them 
were really nice to me — took me to theatres, and sometimes 
to dances. Oh, I hadn’t such a bad time now I come to 
think of it; but I did hate to have to take in nigger stu- 
dents, as we sometimes did. Then Wolseley came. I 
couldn’t stand him at first, but he had such lots of money 
and treated me — you can’t help liking a fellow when he 


EXPLANATIONS 


127 


does that sort of thing. There were awful tales about 
him, so I kept on my guard. He tried to take advantage 
of me once, but I was too quick for him. Then he said he 
was sorry, and he seemed to be so well off, and — well, we 
were married, really and truly. 

“I knew he was a rake, but that didn’t frighten me — 
I did not know what it meant. Now I do. You see, in the 
novelettes I used to read, it was as often as not supposed 
that ‘a reformed rake makes the best husband.’ The hero 
might be an earl, and might say to the heroine, ‘Dearest, it 
is but due to your pure heart that I should tell you of my 
hateful past. I have been a man as other men, a selfish 
citizen of the world, tarnishing with careless hand the 
gilded scutcheon of my Norman ancestors. It was not till 
I had met you in your innocent beauty that I realised the 
shame of my past life. Will you not raise me to your lofty 
pinnacle?’ Then the heroine tells him that she does not 
care to hear of his past, that she loves him for himself and 
himself alone, and believes in his promise of reform. I 
used to say to myself that when I could screw up Wolseley 
to the point I also could give him such an answer. 

“He never mentioned his past, but he gave me a lovely 
diamond ring. 

“Well, we were married. 

“Then I found what a fool I had been. 

“At first, just neglect; then blows. In spite of all I 
kept true to him. He had made me happy for a while, and 
even if he beat me it wasn’t worse than what I must expect 
if I were left alone. Mother was all fuddled now with 
drink. I had nowhere to go. 

“Then he went to Paris. He might have gone alone, 
but he saw my market value — I had my good looks — he 
told me so quite frankly. Then baby came. That saved 
me for a little while, but we couldn’t afford to keep her, 
poor little thing. The life that followed was too awful to 
remember. His money was all gone and he threatened 
that if I didn’t — but I escaped from him, ran away back to 
London. I was getting on so well as a model when he 


128 


HEARTS AND FACES 


found me again. I kept him in drink, and then at last to- 
night — well, you know the rest.” 

By this time they had reached the corner of his street. 

“You had better wait here,” George said. “I shall fetch 
that bag and be back in a minute.” 

When he returned, he said: 

“You will find a few things in this that may be useful — 
brushes and so on. Sorry they are only men’s things. Now, 
shall we get a hansom?” 

“All right. But tell me — which hotel? And shall I see 
you again soon?” 

“I think Euston will do. As to meeting again, if I were 
you, I should leave London for a while, especially Chelsea. 
Ravin is sure to talk, even though I tell him your story. 
He is an unbelieving devil. You’ll find it difficult to get 
work then. Why not go to Paris for a while? You can 
surely find work there in the Latin Quarter. Write to me 
if you get stranded. I’m good for another ten pounds if 
you really need it. You know this street — seventeen is my 
number.” 

“Thank you so much; I shall never forget your kind- 
ness.” 

They found a hansom in King’s Road. 

“Good-bye,” he said to her, and “Euston” to the cabby. 

Two minutes later she was out of sight, and George re- 
turned thoughtfully to his rooms. 

Ethel, however, was not yet at the end of her adventurous 
night. Her driver was not all too sober, and when they 
reached Sloane Square he had forgotten the address. 

Opening the trap-door in the roof of the cab, he shouted : 

“Shay, miss, where did the genleman shay?” 

“Euston,” said Ethel. “The hotel, not the station.” 

“Sure he didn’t shay Victoria?” 

“No, I tell you, Euston.” 

“Aw right,” but he turned his horse towards Victoria. 

“Stop!” she cried, rapping on the roof. “You’re going 
the wrong way. I said Euston.” 

“But I shays Victoria,” replied the man. 


EXPLANATIONS 129 

Passers-by stopped to listen to the altercation. A police- 
man came up and Ethel appealed to him. 

“Please tell the driver that it is Euston I want, not Vic- 
toria — he’s half-tipsy.” 

“Wake up there, driver. I’ve got your number. Take 
this lady to Euston or there will be trouble.” 

“Euston be damned !” said the driver in a fury. “Genle- 
man shaid Victoria.” And with that he suddenly lashed 
his horse. 

The poor brute jumped forward, and Ethel, who was 
standing up on the front platform, was pitched out heavily 
into the street, falling on her head. 

The policeman picked her up unconscious. When she 
came to her senses again she was lying in hospital with a 
nurse beside her, too weak to move. 

“How long have I been here?” she said. 

“Nearly a fortnight. Quiet, dearie! — take a sip of this 
soup. I knew you would turn the corner.” 

Gradually she collected her thoughts, and by the time 
the house-surgeon came to see her she was able to converse 
with him. 

“Your husband has been here several times.” 

“No one else?” 

“No, I don’t think so. Nurse, has any one else called 
for Mrs. Greville?” 

“Just Mr. Greville. He is coming again to-morrow. He 
has left a message for patient. I will bring it now if you 
like.” 

“No, let her sleep first. Give her this medicine. She 
must not be excited. Glad to see you looking so much 
better, Mrs. Greville. Yours was a nasty accident, but 
you’ll soon be all right, and the mark won’t show. The 
cut was under your hair and fortunately that is thick. Au 
revoir.” 

After the medicine she fell asleep again and did not wake 
up again till next morning. She was very much better. 

“You can give her that letter, nurse,” said the house- 
surgeon. “She’s all right now. Only a matter of time.” 


130 


HEARTS AND FACES 


“Such a nice gentleman your husband is,” said nurse as 
she brought the letter. “He brings flowers every day for 
you.” 

“Read it to me,” said Ethel. 

“Dearest Ethel,” it commenced, 

“I have good news for you. A French lawyer has 
been here with reference to a will made by your late father. 
He has left you quite a large sum of money, and we shall 
be quite well off. Nurse tells me not to say too much for 
fear of exciting you. It was lucky that a friend of mine 
saw the accident, otherwise I might never have known 
where you were. 

“Longing to see you again, 

“Ever your loving 

“Wolseley.” 


CHAPTER XVII 


A LETTER FROM PARIS 

G EORGE did not hear of the accident, and wondered 
why he had no message of any kind from Ethel. 
She might at least have sent a post card from 
Paris, or wherever she had gone. He told the 
whole story to Ravin, but Ravin only laughed at him. 

“You very young and soft,” he said. “She far too clever 
for you. Just you take care she don't try to blackmail 
you.” 

But after about two months a letter did come from her, 
and from Paris — an address near the Champs-Elysees : 

“Dear Mr. Grange, — 

“I am enclosing a money order for a hundred and 
twenty francs, together with the photograph of my little 
girl. I am keeping the bag, and hope that some day you 
will come to fetch it. In the meanwhile it reminds me 
of a debt I never can repay. 

“You must wonder why I have been so long in writing. 
Perhaps you never heard of my accident, or again of my 
stroke of fortune. On that night after I left you, I was 
thrown out of the hansom in Sloane Square, and had 
concussion of the brain. While I was lying ill in hospital, 
my husband was called on by a French lawyer who was 
settling up the affairs of my late father. You remember 
I told you the story of my parents. Well, father died 
some months ago, and evidently he was sorry for what 
he had done and wished to make some reparation. He 
left a small allowance for my mother, and the rest of his 
money was to be settled on me. The only stipulation 
was that I should become a Roman Catholic. The interest 
amounts to over two thousand pounds a year. Wolseley 

131 


132 


HEARTS AND FACES 


has been so nice to me ever since — quite a different man. 
As soon as I was fit to travel, he took me to the Riviera, 
and now we are in Paris. Wolseley wants me to go on 
the stage, and to buy sufficient interest in a small theatre 
so that he can be manager. He says it would be a good 
investment, and that it could be done on the money left 
me by my father. But that is not my ambition. I have 
made up my mind that my first duty is to find my own 
child again — the little girl about whom I told you. I 
don’t know whether you believed my story — that is to 
say, the second story — but it was really true. I was 
really not a bad lot — what can a woman do in London 
who has no money and no home? 

“So I am spending all my time here trying to trace my 
little girl. So far, I have had only one clue. The woman 
who adopted her seems to have done it for a purpose, to 
make money out of the child. She is known to have 
allowed the child to pose for artists, but in their private 
studios only, not in schools, and of course she keeps what 
is earned in this way. Latterly she has not been seen in 
Paris, and what I fancy has happened is that she is with 
the child at some studio in the country. I go all round 
the galleries and exhibitions looking to see if I can find a 
picture with a portrait of my darling, but it is almost a 
hopeless task. Paris is so huge. 

“Sometimes I have thought that perhaps you could 
help me. You must see so many models, and perhaps she 
has gone to London. Perhaps some day you will come 
across my little girl. She must have grown to be just like 
me — she must be four years old now — but more Frenchified 
of course; so I send you a photograph of myself. I was 
eight years old when this was taken, but it is the only one 
I have. You remember I told you of my early days. I 
was fond of reading, and in this photograph I am holding 
a novelette — ‘The Divided Way.’ Mine indeed has been 
a divided way, and I can only thank the blessed Virgin 
that I was saved from taking the wrong path, just in time, 
and by you. 

“My only vexation is that Wolseley takes no interest in 
this search for my lost darling. He says it is a waste of 
time and money. But he is not drinking — this is a pri- 
vate letter, please remember — and I have promised that 


A LETTER FROM PARIS 


133 


a little later I will consider the matter of the theatre. But 
I certainly shall not act myself. I have no talent for the 
stage, and should only be a failure. 

‘‘Why don’t you come to Paris and study here for a 
while? This is the real artists’ city — you feel it in the 
air — so different from London, which is so sordid and so 
money-making. My father seems to have had quite a 
good collection of pictures, and Durand Ruel gave three 
hundred thousand francs for the lot. I like his galleries 
best of all. These modern pictures are so much more true 
than the old style of painting. 

“We are living in a pretty little flat, and just below us 
is a girl, the mistress of a well-known senator. French 
morals are so different from ours in England. She is 
most respectable and very particular about the etiquette 
of her position. He may visit her, but she may not visit 
him. They go about together quite openly, and she has 
her victoria and her poodle — everything so chic. Wolseley 
says I ought not to recognise her, but I don’t know any 
ladies here, so when he goes out by himself I often slip 
downstairs and gossip with her. She is so clever with her 
needle, and has made me two new hats. 

“I often think of you and picture you in Mr. Ravin’s 
studio. What a queer fellow he was! Of course that 
story about his Esquimau parents was too ridiculous. I 
knew at once you were playing a game with me. But 
why does he allow those ragamuffins to sleep in his studio 
at night? And that awful nigger! Ugh! how I hate all 
niggers. I told you how we used to have to take in nigger 
students sometimes when Mother and I kept lodgings. 
They used to make eyes at me and want me to go with 
them to the theatre. As if I would so demean myself ! 

“Poor mother! She is in a home now. The money 
that father left for her gives her a few more comforts than 
she otherwise might have had. But her case is hopeless. 
What a terrible thing this drink is! 

“Well now, I have let my pen run on to a dreadful 
length. But really I have so few friends to write to. I 
wonder if you often get letters? Yes, you must — a man 
of your age must have had some love affair by this time. 
Well, I hope you have good luck. 


134 


HEARTS AND FACES 


“Write to me if you feel inclined. If you don’t, I shall 
understand, and not be angry. 

“Very sincerely yours, 

“Ethel.” 

George read the letter a hundred times, and a hundred 
times commenced to write. It was the only letter he had 
ever had from any woman, and it stirred him to the heart; 
but what he wrote was never satisfactory. So it was that 
Ethel never had an answer. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


THE WORLD, THE FLESH AND THE DEVIL 

I T did not take George long to find out that his friend 
Ravin had a soft heart for Miss Marriott, the girl 
with auburn hair. Whether she responded was an- 
other matter. The Frenchman in a confidential mo- 
ment confessed that he once asked her to marry him. 

“But it no good,” he said, swinging his arms. “She 
refuse me. I not know her well enough then, and she right. 
Now perhaps more chance, but I no money to marry. After 
all, it not matter. I easy find wife when I got money. 
I ask some friend to recommend me nice clean English 
girl, who not expect too much. No Frenchwoman for 
me! I know too well. You not need love for happy mar- 
riage.” 

George himself could never take his eyes off the girl. 
The episode with Ethel had, moreover, had its influence 
on his character. The obsession of work had blinded him 
a little to our commoner humanity. But here in a 
moment he had come in touch with the passions, the im- 
pulse, frailty, tears and tenderness of that strange blend of 
flesh and blood called woman — something that could not 
be unhandled with cold judgment, whose charm seduced 
just as its viciousness repelled, whose spirit hovered, clung, 
enfolded after he had pushed the offending body from him. 
The disease of desire infected him, a disease from which no 
ascetic precaution, no inoculated virtue could ever make 
him safe. 

Do not imagine that this infection perverted him, made 
him a liar, or Don Juan. Disease in him became uneasiness 

i35 


136 


HEARTS AND FACES 


of spirit, a softening of prejudice, sensuous development, 
delight in voluptuous music. 

Twenty-one, and just growing into manhood — who can 
blame him? 

Such a change of spirit could not but affect his work, his 
taste, his method. Without knowing why, he found a 
pleasure less in the realistic copying of things he saw than 
in luxurious colour, in the flow of line, in the charm of 
balance and of spacing in design, in sensuous decoration. 
These, after all, are but the voicing of a physical state. 

George broke away from St. Margaret’s, taking a studio 
where he could work more independently. The two hun- 
dred pounds sufficed for comfort. Models and materials 
absorbed half. The rest is enough for Chelsea. 

This studio was one of a row in a building erected by a 
far-seeing model who found it more profitable to exact the 
rents than to accept the doles of art. Bliicher Studios, they 
were called, the landlord having a quaint notion that the 
name suggested Prussian Blue. They differed from the 
neighbouring Mermaid Studios in not being infested by rats, 
but they had the disadvantage of being dominated by a 
teacher of music whose pupils bawled, or thumped an an- 
cient piano all day long. The inhabitants of the studios 
would have bought an air-gun, but for the lucky accident 
that the musician owned a pretty daughter. Her smiles 
made them forgive some inconvenience. 

Four other studios branched off the common passage, 
George’s being the nearest on the right hand to the street. 
His three immediate neighbours were familiarly known as 
the World, the Flesh and the Devil, from their common 
appearance of being at war with mankind. They all wore 
long hair, brigand hats, and peg-top trousers, and were 
united in their predatory habits. Other people’s brushes, 
tubes and kitchen utensils were really meant for them. The 
World walked with a swagger, the Flesh was round and fat, 
the Devil a sinister six foot. 

A fourth and more palatial studio at the end of the pas- 
sage was rented by a wealthy amateur whose name was 


THE WORLD, THE FLESH AND THE DEVIL 137 

Clotter, but who had been nicknamed The Tootler, on the 
ground that he imitated Whistler. Clotter had not always 
aimed at such lofty ideals as those that he now misunder- 
stood. It was Clotter who went to a colour-man and de- 
manded Old Master brushes. 

“Old Master brushes ?” said the puzzled shopman. 

“Yes, you know the brushes that the Old Master kind of 
picture was painted with. You see them in the portraits 
the artists did of themselves. ,, 

“Oh, certainly. Anything else this morning ?” 

“Yes, I should like some colours to paint a mist with/’ 

“Any particular kind of a mist ?” 

“Yes, a Chelsea mist.” 

“Certainly, sir.” And he charged accordingly. 

By this time Clotter was a little wiser, even told the 
story against himself. But his smudges naturally made his 
neighbours laugh at him, unless they wished to borrow 
money. If Qotter painted Adam and Eve, these were 
drawn as in the picture before which a famous wit 
once said, “Sir, I deny that I am descended from that 
couple.” 

Clotter had a real respect for George, scenting a possible 
aristocrat behind so clean a collar. Not that George treated 
him with any more ceremony than the others. One day 
Clotter rushed into his studio. 

“What do you think of this?” holding up his latest. “I 
think of calling it ‘Nocturne/ ” 

“If I were you,” said George, “I should call it ‘Fugue in 
Brown Paper and Lamp Black/ ” 

“Really? Would you? Very good — Ha! Ha!” 

As Sending-in Day for the Academy approached, excite- 
ment ran high. One after the other, the World, the Flesh 
and the Devil came to borrow paints, declaring that their 
master-pieces were at stake. Most excited of all was Clot- 
ter, who swaggered round saying that he meant to have a 
Show Sunday for his pictures. 

Show Sundays were as yet beyond the purses and the 
dreams of the World, the Flesh and the Devil. They knew 


HEARTS AND FACES 


138 

from long experience that they would be “chucked,” and 
shrank from advertising failure to friends who still believed 
in them. With Clotter it was otherwise. He had private 
lessons from an artist who lived by flattery, and being thus 
fortified Clotter meant to make the most of it. He had 
ordered refreshments from a Kensington caterer, with two 
hired footmen to prime the praise with stimulant. It was 
the Clotter nature also to parade, and not to invite one’s 
poorer neighbours. 

George alone received a card. 

Being invited, though he never meant to go, George was 
suspect, and was excluded from the counsels of the worthy 
trio. All the same, he scented mischief, the Devil hinting 
that all Chelsea ought to come and see the fun. 

At last came Show Sunday. 

On the great day, when many a studio staircase creaked 
with impatient heels under petticoats that swished with 
curiosity, Bliicher Studios presented a remarkable appear- 
ance. As George came down the street, he saw carriages on 
carriages, with footmen and cockades, herring-boxed as if 
it were St. George’s, Hanover Square. A carpet had been 
laid at the entrance, and the entrance was sheltered by an 
awning. The mistake that Clotter made was to await his 
guests inside his own studio. 

That error was the opportunity of his three pirate neigh- 
bours. Had he but placed a footman at the street door there 
might have been no tragedy. Clotter would have learned 
in time of a misleading placard over the entrance, which his 
enemies had placed after the first three carriages had ar- 
rived. This notice ran : — 


REFRESHMENTS IN THE END STUDIO. 

Clotter’s studio, as has already been explained, was not 
the only one that opened on the passage, although to his 
undoing it was the end one. So it was that when the doors 
of his hated neighbours were thrown open, they too in- 


THE WORLD, THE FLESH AND THE DEVIL 139 

vited inspection, and as the crowd surged in Clotter was in 
any case submerged. 

The World was in his element. His Mermaid picture 
fetched these fashionable folk. On catching sight of George, 
he slipped away to warn him. 

“The Tootler doesn’t know our game,” he whispered. 
“I have captured the art critic.” 

After delicate negotiation, Clotter had prevailed on a real 
live art critic to inspect his pictures, and for a week before 
this was his greatest brag. Yes, there was the critic! You 
could tell him from the angle of his nose against the 
paint and the notes upon his cuffs. George was beside him 
now, and could not refrain from curiously peeping. Four 
words were legible: “mystery — luminous — Whistler — Ve- 
lazquez.” 

The critic was a comfortable-looking man. Art was an 
aid to his digestion. He saw George looking and seemed 
glad of the chance to show his mettle. 

“Fine!” he said, half to George, half to the crowd. 
“Isn’t it fine! Don’t you think you could live there on 
that cliff, in a little cottage perched above the sea, watching 
the waves dashing in and the sea-gulls flying out to meet 
the coming storm?” 

“No,” said George. “I couldn’t, for the simple reason 
that sea-gulls fly inland when there’s going to be bad 
weather.” 

“There, there is atmosphere!” continued the undaunted 
expert. “Doesn’t it smell of the sea!” 

“Not a bit,” said George. “It smells of ‘turps.’” 

“You have no soul.” 

All the studios were full, but, alas, in the case of Clotter’s 
that placard at the entrance had done its devilish work! 
The visitors in the end studio were there only for the re- 
freshments. 

The World, the Flesh and the Devil each had talent, and 
an amateur with an eye to the future took this chance to 
buy from each a picture. 


140 


HEARTS AND FACES 


The one Duchess whom Clotter had been able to secure 
betrayed the secret. 

“Mr. Clotter/' she lisped, "I see that yours is not like 
the Feast of Cana. You do keep your worst to the last. 
You naughty, irreligious man! And did you really, really 
paint her from the life? — I mean that fascinating mermaid 
in the first room — Oh, I understand now why you have 
become an artist!" 

Clotter shivered. 

It was the World who painted mermaids. 

Could the Duchess have strayed into that bounder’s studio 
by mistake? 

As the guests thinned down, he hurried out into the 
passage. 

Too true! His guests had been captured by the Devil 
— and the Flesh ! — and the World ! 

The three knaves were honest enough to confess the trick, 
even to offer him a commission on their sales. But Clotter 
never forgave them. Not long afterwards he took another 
studio in the more select, if less artistic, atmosphere of 
Grosvenor Square. 

George soon followed suit, not to Grosvenor Square, but 
to a studio which was nearer the house in which Miss Mar- 
riott lived. 


CHAPTER XIX 


THE TEMPTATION OF MISS MARRIOTT 

M ISS MARRIOTT sat to George two days a week. 

Catching her one day in a particular light, he 
had got an idea which he wished to work out. 
In the meanwhile he drew and painted from 
her in every sort of pose, concentrating on increase of 
speed. Just now he thought the fresh impression of a day 
the best of all, and his ambition was to complete a canvas 
in one rapid working. To do that, he must be unhin- 
dered by a lack of skill or accidents of light. 

Summer might grow never so sultry, but green fields 
and cool sea breezes were forgotten in this fair young pres- 
ence. One call from the North made George waver for 
a moment. This was a letter from Mrs. Middleton, written 
from Stonehaven: 

“Dear George, — 

“Whenever I pass a certain garden and see the roses 
bloom upon the wall behind the hollyhocks and larkspur, 
I think of my young artist friend and wonder if I shall 
ever see him again. Nathaniel Reid has gone to Orkney 
for the summer, but he writes that you are not with him. 
Is there anything that prevents you from staying with 
us at Stonehaven? Kate has recently met her fate, and 
she and Elsie are both visiting the family of the beloved. 
The Doctor has a poor appetite and will not look even at 
my apple jelly. My cooking is wasted and the two empty 
rooms lie on my conscience. One could be your bedroom 
and the other your studio — it has a north light — sacred 
from all intrusion provided you spare an occasional evening 
to gossip with an old woman. The same sea air blows in, 
the same wild flowers nod along the paths by the cliffs at 

141 


142 


HEARTS AND FACES 


Cowie and Dunnottar, the heather blooms as ever on Cairn- 
mon-Earn — I can promise you a fisherman as weather 
beaten as the last — bring a model with you if that is the 
hindrance, but do come! 

“The winter has been so busy that I had little time to 
write, though you were often in my thoughts. I feel old 
and tired and glad to have this breathing space. Time 
has no pity on a woman of my age. She feels the years 
creeping in and cannot escape them. A man can grow 
young with new interests, but a woman has her hearth- 
stone round her neck. 

“What have you been reading lately? I have a set 
of Tolstoi waiting for you here, he is my latest and greatest. 
He makes me feel how small one human soul is in this 
complex world. What a fascinating country Russia must 
be! 

“But it is not Russia that calls you now. It is Scot- 
land and dear old Stonehaven. 'Dark and true and tender 
is the North/ 

“Won’t you come to us? 

“Ever your affectionate friend, 

“Agnes Middleton.” 

At any other time George would have taken the next train 
from Euston, but just now invisible chains tied him to 
the city. 

“Would you like to go to the country for a while?” he 
asked Miss Marriott. “To a seaside village on the north- 
east coast of Scotland? I spent last summer there and 
have an invitation from an old lady. She says I may 
bring a model, and that might very well be you.” 

“Thank you, I’d rather not,” she replied. “You may 
think it odd, but I cannot bear the country. It is too 
quiet, and I should be ill in a week. Unless I can see lots 
of people passing my window, I am miserable. I want 
the shops and the bright restaurants to distract me. I 
once went to a farm with Mr. Ravin and never felt so 
unhappy in my life. I could not sleep at nights because 
of the quiet, and every one in the place thought me an 
abandoned creature — the men were impudent, the women 


THE TEMPTATION OF MISS MARRIOTT 143 

insolent. Here in London I am lost in the crowd and 
forget myself in the busy streets.” 

“But don’t you ever want to go back to Nature?” 

“No,” she answered. “Nature is too cruel.” 

She was inflexible, and George wrote back to Mrs. Mid- 
dleton that this year he could not come. He hesitated to 
give the reason and pleaded the pressure of work. In his 
heart he was ashamed that he could not break away. Was 
this beginning to be a love affair? No! No! — she be- 
longed to Ravin. 

If Mrs. Middleton stood reproached by her empty rooms, 
George felt guilty every time he read Millet’s text still 
hanging by his bed-side. The charm of the country indeed 
had faded before this insidious glamour. He excused him- 
self to himself by saying that Ravin must be his Master 
since Reid was away, but all the while he knew it would 
be more sensible to stay at the sea-side with an old woman 
than drag along in the hot city behind a young one’s pet- 
ticoats. 

Yet London was not without its summer charm, and in 
the early morning the sweet pale light romanced upon the 
house-tops and round the brim street palings with just as 
much translucent beauty as on a Scottish brae. The river 
with its pearly mists and slow, perpetual traffic cast its 
never failing spell. North of London there were foot-path 
rambles, from Pinner and Northwood and Rickmansworth 
to Amersham and Chesham and Beaconsfield, or from 
Wendover, crossing the Icknield Way over the Chilterns 
to Princes Risboro. Here he made acquaintance with a 
secluded farm-house which in summers to come was to 
give him refuge from the too strenuous life of London town. 

Mrs. Middleton up in Stonehaven sighed when she read 
George’s polite regrets. “It is not work alone that keeps 
him,” she said to herself. “It is some young woman. 
May she be worthy of that dear, innocent young lad !” 

So till September the world was grooved. Then Ravin 
plunged one day into George’s studio. 

“I got it !” he shouted. “Come on. We go on the bust” 


144 


HEARTS AND FACES 


“Got what?” 

“The commission. Don’t I tell you? Ah, I forgot — 
the American who see my picture at the New Gallery. He 
give me commission to decorate his house — ten thousand 
dollars and all expenses. I chuck my black and white. 
Hooray!” 

“Where is it? Here or in America?” 

“Oh blow ! I forgot to ask. But I think Boston. He 
give me the address.” 

Out of his waistcoat pocket he produced a crumpled card. 

“You must get more than that,” said George. “Make 
him sign a contract in proper form. Get your out-of-work 
solicitor to draw it up for you. It’s a long way to Boston.” 

“You right! Come on. I stand you a dinner. I send 
telegram to Miss Marriott to come to Frascati. She’s a 
breeck wall, and we drink champagne. Oh blow! I have 
no money. You lend me to-night and we all bust together, 
heinf * 

“What about Peter ?” said George as they went out. 

“Petaire? Oh, he leave me last week. You see my 
drawing of hop-pickers. Well, I come back to my studio 
one night and I see Petaire looking at the drawing. He 
not tidy nothing up all day. ‘What blazes you no clean 
my studio?’ I say. Petaire no answer but mumble, mum- 
ble. ‘Speak up, will you, or I punch your head,’ I say. 
‘Look ’ere, gov’nor,’ he say, ‘I’m on strike, I ain’t got no 
call for work. Free-born British subjick, that’s wot 
I am. Off to the country, I am, to pick ’ops and ’ear the 
bloomin’ lark.’ I laugh and kick him into his corner. But 
in the morning he take my best bowler and my silk ’and- 
kerchief and pretend he wipe away tear, and he say, ‘Good- 
bye, gov’nor, adoo.’ I never see him again. Poor Petaire, 
he starve in the country and die. Never mind, we go on 
the bust.” 

They waited for Miss Marriott at a table near the en- 
trance ; then when she came, went upstairs to the table d’hote. 

During coffee, the orchestra played the Barcarolle from 
the Tales of Hoffman. George listened, while the other 


THE TEMPTATION OF MISS MARRIOTT 145 

two chatted quietly, closer in spirit than they had ever 
been before. 

“Don’t forget,” George heard the Frenchman say. “The 
invitation still holds good, if ever you will come.” 

The answer was lost in music. 

Miss Marriott was certainly less beautiful than Ethel. 
The chin was a trifle heavy and the nose tip-tilted. But 
for that blaze of hair one might not notice her. Then, 
unlike Ethel, she had modesty, or else its excellent counter- 
feit. She was one to be wooed, not to waylay, and even 
after seeming invitation she would repel half-way. If she 
were for love, she would enjoy it as an episode — not drain 
the cup. 

Yet there was passion too behind those eyes, unless 
perhaps George just imagined it. His thought ran often 
in this groove, and he may have found in her eyes the 
mirror of his own. 

If he had not felt that she already half belonged to 
Ravin, he might have felt inclined to flirt and test her. 
Still, he had a curious wonder as to what might happen if she 
did not make some compact with the Frenchman ere he left. 

Apparently there was no compact. 

“She say she still not have me,” said Ravin, after they 
had seen her home. “Ah, perhaps for the best. She good 
girl, but marriage all toss up. Pretty women change so 
when they marry. And she is a model.” 

“I couldn’t fancy her domesticated.” 

“Wait till you in love yourself, my boy. You fancy 
anything then. You dream of babies and bottle-milk.” 

“Look here, old chap,” said Ravin as they parted, “you 
look after her for me and see she get work. I leave money 
with you for her so that you can pay her sitting.” 

“I can manage without. But how if I fall in love with 
her myself?” 

“Oh blow! I take risk.” 

Sublime confidence! Living as they both did in a Bo- 
hemian world, their two young heads constantly together, 
this artist with his warm young blood, this model with 


146 


HEARTS AND FACES 


her retrousse but so charming nose — they might so easily 
have gone a little farther. 

After Ravin left the two days a week on which Miss 
Marriott had first arranged to sit to George grew into every 
day. This might have been to keep her out of mischief, 
for the model who must ask for work has more temptation 
than the model who is in demand. But to all appearance 
it was mutual desire, for it was she that first suggested it, 
and George was glad to take the offer. 

“It isn’t a matter of money,” she said. “You can pay 
me what you choose. I like sitting to you and I hate 
cadging around for work. If I bore you, just fire me out, 
and if I stay you mustn’t flirt with me — these are my only 
conditions.” 

They were sitting in the little studio when she said this, 
sucking oranges. A smile lit George’s face. 

“All right,” he said, “and if you will excuse my natural 
irreverence, we shall call this place the Ark of the Cove- 
nant.” 

It was an apt name. The little whitewashed studio with 
its pointed roof was just what any ark might be. 

As to the covenant, it was sacred just so long as she 
cared to keep it. George was in the mood of youth which 
tastes the fruit unquestioning if it only falls before him. 

She was much best company when he flattered. She 
was no angel, but a woman. 

Every day she grew to be more useful to him and more 
charming. She always knew exactly what he wanted, and 
never shammed fatigue — not at all like the blase model who 
is thinking only of her money’s worth. Miss Marriott had 
an endless flow of small-talk, inexpensive oil that some- 
how makes the world run smooth. 

A clever talker too when they got on to deeper themes. 

She did what little housekeeping the studio needed, darned 
George’s socks, and danced him round in the world 
of music; for she could play, this charming creature of 
uncertain age, not at all badly. Where she had picked it 
up George never learned. Judging from her own ac- 


THE TEMPTATION OF MISS MARRIOTT 147 

counts, her childhood had been perched an ace above starva- 
tion, with just one push between the pavement and the 
gutter. Perhaps she slurred the intricate passages of 
life. Perhaps she found the elusive made the best romance. 

Wherever she had picked it up, George found her playing 
such a pleasure that the piano he had hired was bought. 
They went to concerts together, the tickets for which 
were the only presents that she let him give her. 

Then she sang too — delicate old English melodies by such 
as Purcell and Dr. Arne. These she transposed to her 
contralto, not trained, but wonderfully tender. 

What could have been her history? George found the 
casual links hard to fit together. A little, a very little 
schooling, a good deal of the stage as understudy, a year 
as a companion, a friendship with a woman artist now 
submerged in marriage. Then a long, sad row of years 
in studios, posings and hopeless ambitions. Never a home 
that she cared to remember. 

He was too shy to use her Christian name, so why record 
it? 

No, George never was in love; but very near it some- 
times. 

One night when he had seen Miss Marriott to her door 
after a delightful concert, he felt so unsettled, so disturbed 
by fear lest he must soon go further with the girl that he 
delayed returning to his studio at once, and walked ex- 
citedly along the King’s Road, trying to collect his thoughts. 

“Hullo !” said a familiar voice, bringing him back to 
earth. 

A tall figure leaning against a lamp-post held out a hand, 
which George mechanically shook. 

“Hullo!” he said; “why, Shanks! of all men!” 

“Yes, sir,” said Shanks a trifle indistinctly, “Shanks it 
is, that semi-celebrated artist.” 

“How’s the world using you? What have you been 
doing ?” 

“Doing?” said Shanks, laying a heavy hand on George’s 
shoulder. “Grange, my boy. I’m drunk. Take me home.” 


148 


HEARTS AND FACES 


Yes, drunk he was, and unfortunately lamp-posts do 
not walk, so George unwillingly supported the unsteady 
footsteps of his former fellow-student to the address that 
Shanks was still sober enough to remember. As they stag- 
gered along, Shanks soliloquised on Women. 

“Women, my boy, are millstones round our necks. They 
sink us in a sea of whisky. Take it hot, my boy — 
gets there soonest. Long pull, strong pull, and pull all 
together. Yes, my boy, good old Scotch — where you come 
from. Gi’e me your hand, ol’ chap. I admire the 
Scotch — they are great drunkards. I admire Glasgow 
whisky school, I admire passionately. But I hate women. 
Damn women! I’m a father, old f’la, with babies — two — 
two — two.” 

He held out two fingers idiotically. 

Fortunately it was not far to Shanks's lodgings. A 
young woman answered the door as soon as he rang the bell. 

“Bring him in,” she said, and shuffled off, without wait- 
ing, into a room at the end of the passage. 

It was evidently Shanks’s home, for he waved his hand 
feebly in her direction; so George guided him in. 

He found himself in a miserable room, only half-warmed 
by a wretched fire. The young woman had her back to 
them and was leaning over a cradle, hushing a baby to 
sleep. Another child sat on the floor, sucking a piece of 
coal and staring solemnly at Shanks. 

“Take off his boots and put him in the bed,” said the 
woman, still without turning round. 

With some difficulty George succeeded. 

It was not till he said good night that she turned round 
to face him. 

It was a face he recognized, the face of a once pretty, 
witty model. 

“Miss Butler !” he exclaimed. 

“Yes, Miss Butler still,” she said in a hard voice. “He 
does me the honour to let me share his licence, not his 
name. Art must have no impediments. Genius must 
not be fettered. Genius may get drunk on a model’s sav- 


THE TEMPTATION OF MISS MARRIOTT 149 

ings, ruin her reputation and her figure, damn her for 
her babies, curse her as an incubus. Well, perhaps genius 
is right. If one had not genius, how could one get pictures 
hung upon the Line or at the Salon? And if there were 
not pictures hung upon the Line, how could the world go 
round. Where were you? Six Bells , I suppose. Did he 
spend it all?” 

“I met him in the street,” said George. Then, as a 
thought flashed, added, “He knew he was incapable and 
asked me to bring him home. He also told me to take 
care of his money for him.” So saying, he emptied a pocket 
of its silver. 

She looked at him incredulously, but he met her gaze. 

“Good night,” he said, holding out his hand. 

“Good night,” she said, a tear falling down her cheek. 
“You are all right.” 

As he went along the passage she ran after him. 

“You, whoever you are — I forget your name — don’t tell 
any one of this. I didn’t mean half what I said. I know 
he’ll marry me yet. He’s just got an appointment as a 
teacher up in Manchester, that’s what he went out to cele- 
brate. We’ll pay you back some day. We will — we 
will.” 

“Nothing to pay,” said George good-naturedly. “Don’t 
be too hard on old Shanks. Put on your pretty face again 
and he’ll marry you quick enough. Send me some of the 
wedding cake.” 

He left her laughing. 

But next day Miss Marriott found him less inclined to jest. 

Who could have thought that the pretty, witty Florrie 
Butler, the favourite model at St. Margaret’s, could sink 
so soon into a wretched slut! The wit was now a bitter 
sarcasm, which two more years of poverty and drink might 
make intolerable Billingsgate. Florrie Butler never 
dressed in the height of fashion, though she did not flop 
around from studio to studio in the shapeless sacque that 
so many Chelsea models are content with. She had a 
temper — one remembered that — and always stood up for 


HEARTS AND FACES 


150 

what she called her rights, when there was a draughty 
window or an over-heated stove or a student who sug- 
gested that she had changed her pose. 

Shanks, the woman-hater, had never shown his interest 
at the time — mysterious beggar! Well, he had somehow 
caught her, or she had captured him — one had not heard 
his side of the story. The woman gets the blame, and as 
often as not deserves it. 

Imagine Shanks, the woman-hater, faced in his hours of 
ease with “babies and bottle-milk.” No wonder he took 
to drink! 

Yet it was hard on the mother, mother now of two. 

George wondered what sort of wife or mother Miss 
Marriott would make. Would she be careless in dress, de- 
mand a nurse and servants, hamper an artist-husband, or 
would she remain Bohemian? 

He realized his ignorance of what she really was. To 
marry or to mate with her was gambling. 

He would study her more closely. The more he studied 
her, the more he thought of Ravin, the friend who really 
had the right to her. 

Yes, she was domesticated enough for Ravin — would 
keep him in order, hold the purse and run him on more 
business lines. She was not too strenuous or ambitious — 
just content to live and keep things tidy. 

And she had not forgotten Ravin; indeed, she probably 
thought more of him in his absence. She liked to hear 
George tell how the Frenchman helped him in his work, 
how if he painted such and such a way it was because 
Ravin told him so. 

Yet George was doing wonderfully well, and if Miss 
Marriott had realised that he was merely in the making 
and that for all his youth he had the right stuff in him, she 
might have played out different cards. 

Ravin wrote regularly, and his letters were well read. 

She liked the theatre, and in this George humoured her. 

“Is it comedy or tragedy to-night ?” she asked once, as 
they waited in the queue. 


THE TEMPTATION OF MISS MARRIOTT 151 

“Everything is comedy to you/' said George, smiling, 
“even a man’s heart.” 

“I mean, do they marry and live happily ever after?” 

“I hope so. I hate plays that leave a brown taste in the 
mouth.” 

“Oranges, juicy oranges, just like wine!” cried a 
hawker. 

“Whenever I think of marriage,” she said, “I think of 
one of my friends. She had twelve younger sisters, and on 
her eighteenth birthday felt they were so thick upon the 
ground that she accepted her first proposal.” 

“Come Kiss Yo f Baby , In Old Madrid , The Better Land, 
all for the low price of twopence,” cried another hawker. 

“Rags that cover happiness,” said George, pointing to 
him. 

“Buy a Star,” cried yet a third, “for the lady’s feet, sir. 
Damp ground, sir, on this ’ere bloomin’ earth.” 

The ticket-office opened for the crush. 

“How unreal she is,” Miss Marriott said of the heroine 
after the first act. “I’m sure the play must be written by 
a woman.” 

“Why?” 

“Only another woman could have thought her possible.” 

“You think that women can do things, not write about 
them ?” 

“Just as they pose better than they paint.” 

“Then man is useful after all, if only to interpret woman- 
hood?” 

“I can’t argue like you. Buy me some chocolate.” 

“You are the most off-at-a-tangent person I ever met,” 
said George. “When I want a model for Inconsistency I 
shall send for you.” 

“Before you are old enough to tackle such a subject, I 
shall be married and pose no more.” 

“Inconsistent again !” 

“How?” 

“You told me once you would rather drown yourself 
than marry.” 


152 


HEARTS AND FACES 


On the way back from the theatre they were very con- 
fidential, and George saw a chance of testing her. 

‘This is excellent chocolate.’’ 

“Suppose I married a model/’ he said. “What would you 
say ?” 

“Now, do you mean, or a year after the marriage?” 

“Whichever you like. Say a year after.” 

Danger twinkled in her eyes. 

“A year after! Well, I should say, ‘You wore a rather 
stylish coat a year ago, trousers turned up and hair parted in 
the middle; quite superior kind of chap, don’t you know. 
Possibly a very good match for a very good model.’ ” 

“Is that all?” 

“Well,” pursued the tormentor, “if I told the truth, I 
should say that you had married to save money and she 
married to get it, and you both miscalculated.” 

“Cruel! Now, look here,” he said, taking her arm. 
“Suppose I asked you to marry ” 

“Don’t — don’t spoil it all. We’ve been such friends.” 

“Hold on !” said George, smiling. “I haven’t finished 
the sentence. As I was saying, suppose I asked you to 
marry old Ravin?” 

She flushed hotly. 

“I’m sorry,” she stammered. “Forget what I said.” 

“No,” said George. “I won’t forget. You need a talking 
to. Here are we two as thick as thieves, trying to steal each 
other’s hearts — and we can’t. Why can’t we? There’s only 
one reason. There’s another fellow in the way.” 

“No, there isn’t,” she said. But that blush ! 

“I’m going to book a passage for you to America.” 

“No, no,” she said. But when he turned her round to 
look into his eyes, it was “All right !” that she whispered. 

As they walked along George asked her why she had at 
first said “No” to Ravin. 

“Do you remember,” she answered, “what you once 
called that girl Swallow?” 

“I think I do,” said George, laughing. “I called her a silly 
little fool.” 


CHAPTER XX 


DISHEARTENED 

A S he drooped out of Waterloo station one might 
have thought that Miss Marriott had taken all 
George’s hope of happiness away with her. 
For all he knew, she was the last of his friends. 
Ravin was now more than ever likely to settle in the new 
land. 

The three years George had spent in London had left 
him still to himself. 

Should he go back to Aberdeen? No, London raged in 
his blood. He hungered for the crowd. And yet in that 
crowd his solitude seemed cried out by the very stones. 
As he came across Westminster he passed two constables 
swinging to the Hospital with a stretcher from which came 
bitter groans — the face invisible. An accident, no doubt, 
but in that neighbourhood a poor man’s misery turned 
heads away less out of pity than in revolt against unpleasant- 
ness. Crossing the road George himself barely escaped a 
like fate at the wheels of some reckless driver. How many 
would have followed him to hospital? 

Victoria Street was a maze of vehicles. He turned aside, 
to pass a yet greater maze of lights, flaring in a narrow 
lane. Here were the hucksters of a thousand odours, stale 
fish and mangy meat, vegetables that must have ma- 
tured as mattress in overcrowded tenements, greasy or- 
gan-grinders, verminous old clothes — the poverty of 
hideous marketing. Here was an underworld that knew 
no beauty. The costers might be foreigners or English. 
He was an alien among such aliens. It must have been in 
such a street that Ravin got the subject for. that pastel — 
with those flaring lights — only the coffin left out ! 

i53 


154 


HEARTS AND FACES 


He hurried away. 

Despair sits in King’s Road gnawing the hearts of soli- 
tary men. 

These are moments in our life when we are lifted outside 
ordinary thought and action to find ourselves in touch 
with the infinite. Sometimes this is under shadow of 
night, when we waken trembling at the judgment seat. 
Two hours ago we may have been immersed in some ab- 
sorbing work which seemed the be-all and the end-all of 
existence. Now we see how small that work is. Twenty, 
thirty, forty years have passed, and to what end? The 
world might very well have done without us. 

Such a moment fell on George as he sat in his studio 
that evening. He was sunk in sudden fear, of his empty 
life, of failure. For what had been his career? At school 
a nobody, at College insignificant. In that first session 
at King’s College he had really worked his hardest, and 
yet how poor had been his place on the list. Then in a 
moment of pique he had thrown up classics and gone in for 
art. What a gamble! Without the least experience or 
the least knowledge of life, without any testing of his 
talent, he had taken the word of a chance stranger and 
plunged into a new career. Up there in the North it seemed 
as if he had entered a serener air. Indeed half the charm 
of an artist’s life had in those days come from the seeming 
lack of competition. Here, he had thought, was a life 
without examinations, without the hurry and rush of ri- 
valry, where a man could work at his will in his own way, 
till at last he arrived. 

And now when he came to see the life of the real artist, 
how different it was ! It was the same old struggle for 
place. Take the case of Ravin, strong in drawing, tender 
in his colour, for ever beset by duns, forced to do work that 
he disliked so that he could pay his rent, almost unknown 
to fame simply because he had no time or opportunity to 
do big things. Yet Ravin was a comparative success. There 
were dozens of good artists who never sold a picture, 
dozens who were driven to commercial art so that they 


DISHEARTENED 155 

might live, and living at last as slaves sans hope and sans 
ambition. 

Then take his own work. For three years he had worked 
heart and soul, and what had been his progress? He was 
merely on the threshold, a beginner. True, he could draw 
a figure now that looked like something human, but when 
it came to landscape he was no further yet than he had 
been two years ago. 

Was he doomed to mediocrity? Had he not better go 
back to his books before if was too late? After all, he 
had had some knack of turning verses and he could write 
fair prose. Why not write? 

Then he remembered the rejected manuscripts and sick- 
ened again. No, there was no easy road to fame. The 
writer had a training to go through as hard as that of 
artist or of scholar. There must be another three more years 
of schooling, and at the end he must still be a beginner. 

Beginner! That was what old Reid had called himself 
and had not been ashamed. Poor old Reid, what a fine 
friend he was. Why did he never write? 

Thinking of Reid made him think of the talks they 
used to have together. They had once discussed the latest 
author of the last sensation. Those were the early kailyard 
days, and this novel was the kailest kail, romance in a 
manse. The author’s movements were chronicled in lit- 
erary small talk, one learned from illustrated interviews 
the name of his pet dog and the colour of his tie. He wore 
the halo of the immortals. 

Reid was full of ridicule. 

“Hoots, mon,” he snorted, “what does a young blether- 
skite like you know about life. Why, he’s only twenty.” 

Only twenty! And George was twenty-one. 

The thought gave him courage again. He rose and paced 
the studio. 

“Damn it all,” he said aloud. “There’s time enough 
yet.” 

All next winter he was eyes and hands and brushes. 
Forgetfulness came easiest through work. 


CHAPTER XXI 


VARNISHING DAY 

T HE day before she left for America Miss Marriott 
had gone over with George all the pictures he 
had made with her as model. Half of them 
she made him burn. Two she told him to send 
to the Academy, one in particular, showing her at an open 
window, her red-gold hair luminous in the shadow, and a 
gleam of sunlight shimmering on a pale green shawl upon 
her shoulders. There was something eerie in the eyes of 
her — “fairylike” one might have said, another, “more like 
a witch.” 

“What shall I call it ?” he asked. 

“Call it 'Portrait of a Wicked Woman/ ” she answered, 
laughing. 

The incident recurred to his memory one day the follow- 
ing February, when he received an unexpected call from 
two of the Directors of the New Gallery. 

“We have just had a letter from Mr. Ravin in America, 
recommending us to come and see your pictures,” they 
explained. “We always like to keep our eyes open for 
new talent. Of course, you understand this visit does not 
commit us to accept any of your pictures. As a matter 
of fact, we have very little spare room this year.” 

George was somewhat overcome, but naturally delighted 
at the opportunity. They seemed attracted by the window 
picture. 

“That’s one we should like,” they said after a whispered 
consultation. 

“I had meant that for the Academy.” 

Nothing could have been more fortunately said. They 
were determined to have it now. * 

156 


VARNISHING DAY 


157 


“This is a typical New Gallery picture,” they urged. 
“It would be lost at the Academy — one of two thousand.” 

Reluctance, however well assumed, had to succumb to 
such entreaties. They were inquisitive about the title he 
had written on the back, but when he told them it was 
given him by the author no more was said. 

And so to the New Gallery it went. 

He still had one other excellent portrait of Miss Marriott 
for the Academy. This he submitted with his picture of 
Dunnottar Castle. The landscape was rejected, but he got 
his Varnishing Ticket for the portrait. 

Sunshine sparkled in that bit of cardboard. Favouring 
no clique either for or against the Academy, he was elated 
at such early recognition. And his best had been accepted. 

The good news was cabled to the friends at Boston. 

On Varnishing Day Burlington House opened at nine, 
but George had cut himself shaving and thought himself 
unpresentable till ten. Needless solicitude! He mounted 
the stairs unknown and unnoticed. The rooms were al- 
ready filled, workmen jostling about with tall ladders. 

“Too low in tone,” he muttered when he saw his picture; 
then realized that this was due to the MacWhirter near it. 
He was not on the Line, though well enough hung in the 
third room. 

On the right, a little old man was painting for dear life, 
surrounded by bottles, powders, oils, varnishes and mediums 
— a very chemist’s shop. Determined that his pictures 
should last for all time, he mixed his own colours. So 
minute was his brush that it seemed to hold but a single 
hair. Vast sighs were drawn with each microscopic al- 
teration. George knew him by his work — a giant of thirty 
years ago, now the laughing-stock of the up-to-date. 

“Poor old man !” he thought. “May I be as sincere at 
his age !” 

There on the top of a ladder an artist flicked sunlight into 
a landscape that looked — yes, was a Mark Fisher. Skied! 

And there, in a dark corner, an Aumonier. Ah, Frank 
Bramley ! 


158 


HEARTS AND FACES 


Passing into the fourth room he noticed that some one 
had stopped to look at the “Portrait of a Lady/’ 

With a leap of the heart he recognized Orchardson. Of 
all the portrait painters of the day Orchardson, in his 
eyes, stood first. 

Glued to three yards, George haunted the Academician. 
At last — but Orchardson moved on. 

Still, he had stood there quite five minutes. 

There stood the fine old President, button-holed by a 
lady who wished to drag him to the Gem Room, and there 
a grey picture that must have come from Newlyn. 

“Wet-cat painting!” said some one, laughing, surely 
Herkomer. 

A mass of paint and brag and velvet jackets and frock 
coats and smocks and “Seen my picture?” and “Where are 
you, old chap ?” and “Skied again !” 

Although he spoke to no one, it was the first day for eight 
months that George did not feel lonely. To-day his com- 
rade was Success. 

For a week the circulation of every London journal went 
up by one. On Saturday a paper called the Cynic ruined 
his appetite with this : 

“Mr. Grange contributes a Portrait of a Lady who is not 
a lady, in colours that are colourless. Evidently a disciple 
of the Glasgow School, conceived in fog and nurtured in 
futility. Near it is a MacWhirter, painted with our cele- 
brated garden hose, etc. etc.” 

Three Press Cutting Agencies sent him the same informa- 
tion, offering to supply him with more at a guinea a hun- 
dred. 

A happier proof of recognition arrived a week later in 
a curious epistle, which ran as follows : 

“Church Road, Chelsea. 

May 21, 1893. 

“Well-born Sir, 

“Owing to unforeseen concatenation of circumstances, 
I have myself of calling on you the pleasure restrained. 


VARNISHING DAY 


159 


Your extraordinary striking portrait of a dame in the 
Academy, which a friend me noticeable made, conduces 
to this letter. The relationship which I to propose to 
you the honour have, requires private interview. When 
you the hour name, will I await your distinguished orders. 

“Eberhard Grundstein.” 

Grundstein? That was the name on the Old Curiosity 
Shop he had often noticed, in the windows of which was 
always something of interest — fine old Sheraton cabinets, 
French clocks, Oriental armour. Old Masters were occa- 
sionally to be seen, also pictures by the Barbizon men, 
rather disappointing. The collection of miniatures was 
first-rate, and included Cosways and Samuel Coopers. At 
any rate it was not like another shop quite close in which 
he had once seen the legend, 

Two Genuine Oil Paintings — ys. 6d. Nearly New! 

It would be interesting to know the writer — a Jew from 
his name — but what could be the relationship he proposed? 

George was in no mood for work that morning, so, put- 
ting the letter in his pocket, he started for Mr. Eberhard 
Grundstein. 

When the young artist was ushered in, Mr. Eberhard 
Grundstein sat in an easy chair, his bandaged leg placed 
on a rest. This private room was delightfully cool and 
airy, the neutral distemper showing off the pictures on the 
walls to great advantage. A fire-place with copper dogs 
and stencillings and enamel struck one as rather too “arty/’ 
but at any rate it was the room of a man of taste. Mr. 
Eberhard Grundstein showed little sign of his Hebrew ex- 
traction, except perhaps in the beady eyes and in the un- 
derlip that occasionally caressed the grey moustache. A 
retired officer, one might have thought. 

That might account for the old armour, for the rapiers, 
scimitars, pistols, Waterloo knapsacks, helmets, shakos, 
the thousand and one discarded weapons and costumes 
displayed downstairs. Here, however, in Mr. Grundstein’s 


i6o 


HEARTS AND FACES 


sanctum, peace reigned supreme. Landscapes and fair 
dames of 1790 were at any rate his present fancy. 

“Please to excuse me, my gentleman,” said Mr. Grund- 
stein, laboriously. “I have the gout and an accident ex- 
perienced. Ach, Potztausend! I have a twinge. You 
are for the first time in the Academy exposed, not true? 
I never remark you before. That is why I you written 
have. I interest myself in young artists. Will you please 
take place?” 

“What wonderful armour you have,” said George, ner^ 
vously turning the conversation away from himself. “I 
never saw a better collection of Cromwell’s time.” 

“Ah, it is very good imitated, not true?” 

“Imitated !” 

“Pardon, I do not know — it is so difficult to tell — per- 
haps it is genuine; but we have not yet a history for it 
found. Man must so careful be.” 

“But surely,” exclaimed George, “it had all the traces 
of rust cleaned off, and dents, as if from use in battle. 
Besides, the shapes were true. I am interested in that 
period myself. That’s why I know.” 

“Ah so, you interest yourself for armour. Very good! 
But there are unbelievable many forgeries. Think you 
only ! The armour in your Tower of London is nearly all 
forgery. Only three suits genuine, I think. Ah so, you 
believe it not. Perhaps you have right.” 

“How could it be so in a National collection?” 

“I know not. But I think willingly the private collec- 
tions of former military governors see, not recent, of course 
— we are all honest now — but of those who are dead. But 
that is not our affair. It concerns the Government. Do 
you believe, I have in South Kensington Museum a French 
cabinet last week seen which is fabricated, I am sure? 
Man says it is fifteenth century, and the wood is truly old, 
even the nails are old, but after my meaning it was by a 
friend of mine in Paris made. Ah, but you are painter! 
What think you of my pictures?” 

“I have not examined them carefully,” said George. “I 


VARNISHING DAY 


161 


am mostly interested in modern artists. But I often look 
at the miniatures in your window.” 

“Ah, I am known then ?” said Grundstein, holding 
George with his eyes. “Will you open that drawer there? 
I have a case of Cosways. So! How do you find them?” 

“Stunning!” said George. “But — but — surely some one 
has been fooling about with them — that touch is not Cos- 
way’s. Why! the drawing of the chin has been lost!” 

“What then? You have it noticed? You have clever 
eyes, young gentleman. But I tell you, these have been 
by a great miniature painter touched up.” 

“Maybe !” said George testily. “But he’s a bungler. It’s 
a shame to ruin these master-pieces.” 

“Please, please, take it not ill, my good young gentle- 
man. And if he does touch up a little freshly, know you 
not that the great Cosway also Old Masters touched up? 
Perhaps it is retribution. I tell you that this artist more 
money by this touching up makes than by his own paint- 
ing!” 

“Then he ought to have his throat cut.” 

“Potztausend ! Donnerwetter nochmal! Ach! I have 
another twinge. Please to excuse me. Ah, do you know, 
the dealers to-day do not like modern art? You have 
not your picture in the Academy sold, you ?” 

“No,” said George. “But you can add it to your collec- 
tion for fifty guineas.” 

Eberhard Grundstein laughed heartily. 

“You are for business, that can man see. But it can 
be that I others of your pictures buy. But later will we 
of that speak. Fifty guineas! Do you know I pay no 
more for that picture there?” 

“What! That Gainsborough!” said George, going up 
to a picture facing him. “No, it’s not his, after all, but 
it’s like a Gainsborough, whoever it’s by.” 

“Ah, so, you find it good. He is — he was a very clever 
artist. I have another picture by him for the same price 
bought. Then a dealer in Bond Street has bought it. 
This artist was also a picture restorer. After some years 


1 62 


HEARTS AND FACES 


he went to restore a picture by Romney in the collection 
of a millionaire. He found this so-called Romney was his 
own picture. Now my friend the artist had wife and family, 
and he said nothing. He restored his own picture and 
got seventy guineas. So you see he makes plenty of 
money. But about my pictures. What think you of my 
Constable ?” 

George examined a picture painted largely with palette 
knife. 

“Pretty middling,” he said shortly. “Besides, it’s not a 
Constable.” 

“Ach! Du lieber Gott! Potztausend! Donnerwetter 
nochmal! Bomben and Gr-r-renaden ! Please to excuse 
me. I have another twinge. Ah so, you say it is no Con- 
stable? Why think you so?” 

“Because,” said George quietly, “the paint is not yet 
dry. Now, look here, Mr. Grundstein, I can’t see what 
you are driving at. What did you want to see me about ?” 

“Ah so, we come to business now. Is the door shut ?” 

“I don’t know and I don’t care.” 

“You speak too fast, my good young gentleman. Please 
take place. I have a proposition. I have with great 
pleasure your picture seen. It is with freedom and extra- 
ordinary knowledge painted. You see that picture which 
you have for a Gainsborough mistaken. That also is with 
freedom and knowledge painted, but not so cleverly as 
yours. I have also remarked that your picture in the Acad- 
emy unsold remains. I offer you fifty guineas for it and 
for many other pictures which, under certain conditions, I 
shall order. But they must more after the style of Gains- 
borough or Romney be. It is easy to learn. You are clever. 
I pay cash. What think you ?” 

George walked slowly to the door without answering. 

“I make it seventy guineas. Not true, it is an excellent 
relationship ? What say you ?” 

“Go to hell !” said George. 


CHAPTER XXII 


ON THE LADDER OF FAME 


I T was, however, the New Gallery picture which threw 
our hero into the limelight. 

He had been out in the country for a few days, 
and before returning to his studio went to dine at his 
usual restaurant. Hardly had he sat down when an ac- 
quaintance came across the room and handed him an evening 
paper, saying, “ You’ve done it now.” 


“ACTRESS SUES ARTIST FOR SLANDER. 

LIBEL BY PAINT. 

We are informed by Messrs. Goddard and Goddard, 
solicitors for Miss Kitty Dunlop, the well-known variety 
actress, that they have been instructed to take proceed- 
ings against Mr. George Grange, an artist, on account of 
his picture at the New Gallery, entitled “Portrait of a 
Wicked Woman,” which their client considers a grave and 
malicious libel on her character.” 

“Miss Kitty Dunlop! Who the devil is she?” 

“Come now, don’t be so innocent. It will never do to 
plead that in court. She’s the very latest thing in London 
— chief turn at the Tivoli — and she’s got her knife into 
you, my son.” 

“Never met her in my life!” 

“Perhaps not under that name,” said the other. “You 
never can tell who an actress really is.” 

Sudden suspicion flashed through George’s mind. Could 
Kitty Dunlop and Miss Marriott be the same? 

“Where is she playing?” he said. “The Tivoli? 
There’s time enough yet. Here, waiter, how much? 
Thanks, old chap, for the information. See you again ” 

163 


164 


HEARTS AND FACES 


And off he went post-haste to the theatre. 

No, it was not Miss Marriott, nor very much like her, 
except that Kitty Dunlop had also red-gold hair. The 
story in the newspapers had evidently gone the rounds, for 
as soon as her turn came on he heard his neighbours whis- 
pering about it. 

Hurrying back to his studio, he was promptly served 
with a writ, and also found an agitated note from the 
secretary of the New Gallery asking what was to be done. 

What indeed? George was no Solomon. 

He recalled a solicitor who frequented Chelsea, indeed 
lived just round the corner. Better ask his advice. What 
was the name? Ah yes, Eldersham. 

Mr. Eldersham was luckily at home, luckily for himself 
as well as George. Clients did not often come his way. 
When he had heard the story, he exclaimed : 

“My dear fellow, this is the finest advertisement you 
could possibly get. Damn it, you artists never know your 
luck. Leave this to me — don’t you meddle in the matter. 
Let me have all the sketches you ever made of the girl, and 
you yourself go out into the country, out of the way, until 
I tell you to come back to town.” 

“But what will it all cost ?” 

“Oh you Scotchmen! If it cost you a thousand pounds 
it would be cheap. But rest you easy. It won’t amount 
to more than your costs, if it amounts to that. She’s doing 
this for advertisement herself — and she’ll pay, or I’m a 
Dutchman.” 

Next morning as she brought in the breakfast, George’s 
landlady handed him half a dozen cards. 

“Gentlemen of the Press left them last night when you 
were out, sir. Something about a lady’s picture, sir. 
Nothing very bad, I ’opes, sir. Laundry calls to-day, sir. 
Thank you, sir.” 

He must first go round to the New Gallery and explain. 
The secretary received him, half-angry and half-laughing. 

“We had our record day yesterday,” he said, “but why , 
the devil did you do it? Every actress in London was 


ON THE LADDER OF FAME 


165 

here, fighting to see the picture. And the Press, my dear 
sir! And — the — Press ! — wanted to know who you were, 
why you were, how you were, where you were, when you 
were, what you were — By the way, who are you? and 
why the devil did we hang you so well ? They all think we 
were in the know and did it to draw the crowd.” 

The telephone rang. 

“Hullo ! — Yes, New Gallery — What? That picture? 
Oh, we know nothing about it — No, absolutely nothing, 
nor about the artist — Scotch, I believe, young, clever ? 
All our exhibitors here are clever — Sorry can’t tell you any 
more, you’ll find his address in our catalogue, price six- 
pence.” 

He cut off with a sigh. 

“That’s one redeeming feature. Gave a reprint order 
for the catalogue last night.” 

T-r-r-r-r-ing went the telephone again. 

Another newspaper. 

“Let me just assure you,” said George, “it’s all a mis- 
take. The girl in the picture is not Miss Kitty Dunlop. 
I can prove it a dozen times over. I have other pictures of 
the real girl — one is in the Academy. The title was just a 
joke.” 

“That so?” said the secretary. “Well, it’s a damned 
lucky joke. If I were you I’d make the most of it and lie 
low. Time enough to explain when the case comes on. 
Damn it all, we’re coining money here on that picture. 
For God’s sake keep it up! Vamoose! git! — and let them 
talk.” 

George laughed. 

“That’s what my solicitor said.” 

“Then take his advice. Send me your address in case 
of emergencies. Ta-ta! till we meet again.” 

As George went out, people were already pouring in 
through the turnstiles, and he could see a curious crowd 
round his picture. He hurried into the street and jumped 
into a hansom, directing the driver to Baker Street, and so 
to the farm in the Chilterns. 


1 66 


HEARTS AND FACES 


The farm-house lay a little off the road from Great Mis- 
senden to Little Kimble, in a hollow surrounded by trees. A 
thatched roof and walls covered with honeysuckle gave a 
cosy air, which the interior in no way contradicted. The 
door of his sitting-room opened on to a lawn where chickens 
and turkeys and one absurdly vain peacock scratched for 
a living and very soon claimed him as one of the family, 
hopping in and out of the door if ever he left it open. The 
approach to the farm-house was through an avenue of 
elms, leading back across the road to another which was 
so straight as to be evidently Roman. The walls of a 
(Roman camp crowned one of the neighbouring hills and 
the Icknield Way just beyond pointed back to the days of 
the Iceni. 

Not very far away the low rampart of Grim’s Dyke ran 
across the country, and a spur of hill which legend con- 
nected with the name of Cymbeline commanded the neigh- 
bouring plain twenty miles or so towards Oxford. On 
certain dewy, clear-skied days, indeed, Magdalen Tower 
might be dimly distinguished against the horizon. White- 
leaf Cross was another link with the historic past, for here 
a great white cross had been cut in the days of Cavalier 
and Roundhead through the sward of the hill into the 
chalk beneath. 

This was the country of Pym and Hampden, and on 
windy nights George could imagine the ghosts of these 
stiff-necked patriots riding down to Little Kimble to their 
protest against unrighteous impositions. A deep-grassed 
meadow shaded by one or two spreading oaks provided 
pasture for the farmer’s cows, and beyond that ran a wood 
full of charming nooks for George to paint. The chair- 
makers of High Wycombe came as far as this and in their 
gipsy-like shelters added a human note to the landscape. 

With so much to divert him, George found here a haven 
where he could await with equal mind the result of this 
strange lawsuit. 

What exactly the solicitor did, and how the case was 
handled George never exactly fathomed. He knew that 


ON THE LADDER OF FAME 


167 

all the sketches of Miss Marriott were taken from his studio, 
and he answered various pertinent questions sent him from 
time to time; but when he wrote suggesting consultations, 
Eldersham replied: 

“Leave it all to me.” 

Then a wire came that the case was due for a certain 
day next week. He was to appear at the Law Courts at 
eleven o'clock. 

George was annoyed at being treated in this off-hand 
fashion. He went back to town and sought our Elder- 
sham. The solicitor beamed upon him. 

“So glad to see you now, old chap. Everything is fixed 
up. You would just have been in the way. It might 
have been still better — I could have run the case to two 
days, but perhaps it was better to come to a settlement. 
All costs will be paid by the other party. Nothing to be 
done now except play our little play in Court. Don’t let 
a soul know you are in town. Mustn’t give the show away. 
Must have the house full. This is the chance of your life. 
Everybody knows your name. Everybody has seen your 
picture. You are famous, my boy, and it’s Kitty who 
pays the piper.” 

“How on earth did you manage it.” 

“My dear chap, she’s an actress. This is a far better 
scheme than having her jewels stolen.” 

George was so excited on the day of the trial that he had 
only a confused recollection afterwards of what happened. 
He remembered that the Court was packed to suffocation 
with smartly-dressed women, and some of his counsel’s 
remarks made him wish that the ground would swallow 
him up. Perhaps the simplest way to record what hap- 
pened is to reprint here the account that appeared in the 
Evening Standard of that date: — 

ACTRESS v. ARTIST. 

AMUSING SLANDER CASE. 

SENSATIONAL SEQUEL. 

In the King’s Bench Division, before Mr. Justice Broom 
and a Special Jury, terms of settlement were announced in 


i68 


HEARTS AND FACES 


the action by Miss Kitty Dunlop, a well-known variety 
actress, against Mr. George Grange, portrait-painter, for 
slander. 

Mr. Dark, K.C., for the plaintiff stated that the jury 
would not be troubled with the case. The defendant, he 
said, had painted a picture which was exhibited at the 
New Gallery and which was entitled in the catalogue 
“Portrait of a Wicked Woman.” That portrait bore a 
striking resemblance to Miss Kitty Dunlop, and the title 
was calculated to do serious damage to the character and 
professional reputation of an innocent lady. His client, 
however, had satisfied herself by subsequent inquiry and 
reflection that this was a case of mistaken identity, and 
that the portrait in question was meant to represent some 
one other than herself. It was true that it represented a 
lady with red-gold hair — 

His Lordship: Is the plaintiff's hair red-gold? 

Mr. Dark: Nearly always (laughter in Court). But 
the shade of hair was not the sole cause of confusion. The 
silk shawl shown in the picture was of the same shade of 
green as a shawl (produced in Court) worn by the plaintiff, 
and the general similarity of features was such that the 
attention of Miss Dunlop was drawn to the resemblance 
in a letter addressed to her by a well-known peer. 

His Lordship : What else did he say in the letter ? 

Mr. Dark: He invited her to supper at the Savoy. 
(Loud laughter.) To continue, Miss Dunlop has been 
convinced by the inspection of twenty-seven other por- 
traits of the other lady by the same artist that she herself 
is not the wicked woman portrayed. She only desired 
to clear her character in public and has agreed to allow 
judgment for the defendant with costs of this action includ- 
ing costs as between solicitor and client. 

Mr. Blaithwaite, K.C., representing the Directors of the 
New Gallery, stated that his clients were involved in this 
settlement through having published the alleged slander 
in their catalogue. They were about to issue the fifth 
reprint of this catalogue, and in order to prevent the pos- 
sibility of further confusion were prepared to add a foot- 
note to the title of the portrait in question, “This is not 
Miss Kitty Dunlop ” 

Mr. Oldbury, K.C., for the defendant desired to state 


ON THE LADDER OF FAME 


169 


that in painting this portrait Mr. Grange had not the 
slightest intention to reflect in any way upon the character 
of the plaintiff. Indeed this portrait represented an 
entirely different lady, and the title was chosen with 
humorous intention and with the consent of the original 
sitter, who was a professional model. As he had not the 
pleasure of the plaintiff’s acquaintance, Mr. Grange was 
not in a position to know whether she was a wicked woman 
or not, but he certainly thought her a very good actress 
and presumed that like most of her sex she was an angel. 
He was prepared to offer amends for the annoyance unwit- 
tingly caused to the plaintiff by painting her portrait with- 
out charge, although he feared he could not do justice 
to her charms. 

His Lordship : Is this leading up to a proposal of mar- 
riage ? 

Mr. Oldbury: It would be too late. According to my 
information the plaintiff was united this morning before a 
registrar in the bonds of holy matrimony to the peer 
already referred to. (Sensation in Court.) 

His Lordship: I trust the plaintiff will rest satisfied 
with this new title. Permit me to congratulate her lady- 
ship. 

One afternoon a few days after the conclusion of the case, 
as George was cursing a model who had not turned up, 
there shuffled in, three inches at a time, an old, old man 
with pale and sodden face. The cheeks were pendulous 
like dewlaps and the eyes all shot with blood. Had the 
Last Trump been sounded the grave could not have ren- 
dered up more terrible tribute. 

The stranger jerked a card at George; then shuddered 
in a chair. The name covered a reputation of enor- 
mous wealth. Who had not heard of Sir Joshua Fels- 
head? 

“Do you know Greek?” said a voice full of mists and 
whisperings and pain. 

George quoted the only line he could recollect : 

“Tond’ apomeibomenos prosephe polumetis Odusseus” 
(To him in answer spake the cunning Odysseus). 


170 HEARTS AND FACES 

Merriment flickered in green shafts under those swollen 
eyelids. 

“Good, good! You’ll understand. Behold in me 
Prometheus, chained to three millions, with cancer gnaw- 
ing at his vitals. Behold, too, Tantalus at whose lips the 
fruit must ever hang untasted.” 

He was surely mad. A wealthy lunatic, for a diamond 
pinned his tie. 

“You are to paint my portrait — quick — before I die.” 

George rose to the humour of the eccentric and seized 
his palette. 

“Keep still,” he said, clamping an untouched canvas to 
his easel. 

“Ho, ho!” chuckled the old man, more than ever un- 
earthly. “Not so fast. What’s your price?” 

“Forty guineas.” 

“Pounds.” 

“Done.” 

“Go on.” * 

It was thrilling. George roughed in the drawing in 
masses of greens and reds, catching the character through 
sheer violence of colour. It was reckless, devilish; but, 
when in an hour the old man panted for rest, the artist 
felt that the sketch, crude as it was, towered above any- 
thing he had yet done. He was almost afraid to show it. 
Yet Sir Joshua was pleased. 

“That’s it,” he groaned. “Put your knives and daggers 
into me. I want the truth.” 

Another hour of breakneck work and then George paused. 

“The light is changing,” he said. “If you want the 
truth, you must live till to-morrow.” 

“Is that all?” 

“Three days more, if you can.” 

“I’ll pay you by instalments.” 

“No, cash.” 

“Good, call my servant.” 

George strode to the door. Out there in the street stood 
a carriage, two chestnuts pawing the ground. A servant 


ON THE LADDER OF FAME 


171 

in livery sprang up the steps and hurried to Sir Joshua, 
who sank back into his cushions. The strain of sitting two 
hours on a hard seat had been frightful. Then, shaking 
a chalky forefinger, he swept out of sight. 

George went back as if in a dream. He could not believe 
that it was true. And yet there before him on the easel 
stood the proof. What a face! 

The address on the card was Park Lane. George went 
out for a cup of tea, and then, a little recovered, stepped 
along to see what sort of a house Sir Joshua lived in. 

The street in front was strewn with straw, and the police- 
man promptly collared a news-boy who commenced to 
shout his contents. Very soon he spied George too, and 
walked suspiciously past. 

“Any business ?” he said over his shoulder. 

“Is that where the millionaire lives ?” asked George, 
pointing to the house. 

“W’ich millionaire ?” 

“Sir Joshua Felshead.” 

“May you be connected with the Press ?” 

“No, I am an artist and I am painting Sir Joshua’s por- 
trait. I wish to know if that is his house.” 

“Very like,” said Robert, heaving a sigh, “but more like 
his coffin-shell.” 

“Dying? I thought so.” 

“Thought so ? W’y not so ?” said the philosopher in blue. 
“Wot is death but a change of beat ?” 

Surprised at such an answer. 

“Are you ” George began. 

“I’m relieved. Six o’clock !” snapped Robert, and swung 
round to a comrade who had just turned the corner. 

The old man came to the studio at the same time next 
day and for the two days following. Exhausted as he was 
at t*he end of each sitting, he seemed to have nerves of iron 
and kept Death scowling. 

On the last day George told him of the sentimental 
policeman, but the old man made no comment. All the 
same he must have understood, for at the interval he said : 


172 


HEARTS AND FACES 


“If you have seen the outside of my house, better come 
inside as well. You lunch with me to-morrow. It will 
cost you nothing.” 

As he made the final inspection of the portrait, he nodded 
in a satisfied way and told the servant to take it off, wet 
as it was, then placed four ten pound notes on the table. 

So ended George’s first commission, though more was 
yet to come of it. 

Next day he arrived punctually at Sir Joshua’s house and 
was shown up a staircase magnificently carpeted. 

At the foot of the balustrade were two Greek marbles. 
Facing him was a Veronese, and at the turn of the stairs 
he saw two Titians. , 

Sir Joshua, more like wet clay than ever, uneasily re- 
clined beside a table which was already laid. Round him 
hung servants, constantly changing his pillows and antici- 
pating his slightest pain. Sir Joshua pointed to a seat, 
suffering too much to speak. 

Two footmen served food, but this was not an atmosphere 
for appetite. Still George did his best, afraid to offend. 

The table service was of delicate design, mostly in ham- 
mered silver, but George had half expected to find it all of 
ebony, with soup served round in a skull. Sir Joshua, as 
he sipped his water, eyed the dishes. 

“Tantalus!” at last he whispered. 

It was his only word. Some paroxysm seized him and 
the servants wheeled him out of the room. 

“Sir Joshua is always taken like that at this time of 
day,” said the butler. 

“How dreadful!” 

“A little port, sir?” 

“No thanks.” 

“’47, sir?” 

“I can’t stand this any longer. I must have fresh air. 
Will you pay my respects to Sir Joshua and say I am 
sorry I must go?” 

He almost ran into the street. 

The old man was a vampire that no work could shake 


ON THE LADDER OF FAME 


173 


off. He infested George’s dreams, waking him in cold 
sweats. At the opening of the next exhibition of the 
Society of Portraitists, George read in his morning paper 
that the portrait he had painted was hung in the centre 
room and had attracted much attention. Sir Joshua must 
have sent it on his own account. 

He hurried off to Park Lane, to find that the blinds were 
down. 

“Sir Joshua died this morning, ,, said the footman. 

The butler, who had seen George from a window, hurried 
down to stop him. 

“You are the young artist, sir, are you not?” 

“I painted Sir Joshua’s portrait last June.” 

“That’s it. Would you come in, sir? I should like to 
ask a favour of you.” 

George was led into a room, the walls of which were 
hung with Raeburns. The butler, heavy-browed and quiet- 
eyed, stood by the table mechanically rapping his knuckles 
on the cloth. 

“Having served Sir Joshua for forty year, I would make 
so bold as to ask if you would make a sketch drawing of 
him as he lays.” 

“Certainly.” 

“Will you come this way, sir?” 

Again they went upstairs. 

The body of the millionaire lay on a little stretcher bed 
that might have cost a pound. The floor was bare board 
and the only other thing in the room was a daguerreotype 
of an old woman, hanging on the wall. 

“This was his bedroom as he liked to have it. He was 
afraid of the night, lest he should be taken in the midst of 
wealth, as he said. That was his mother.” 

Death had taken twenty years of pain out of the old 
man’s face. It was a hard face still, but very human. 

“Ay, ay,” said the butler. “Ay, ay. This was his great 
relief.” 

“How long did you say you served him?” asked George 
as he shaped the portrait. 


174 


HEARTS AND FACES 


“Forty year, sir. Forty year.” 

“And how long had he been ill?” 

“You see him as he was in ’72.” 

When the sketch was finished, George handed it to the 
butler. 

“Ay, ay,” he said. “Ay, ay.” 

“Sir Joshua was a good friend to me,” said George. 
“Now I must be going.” 

“Sir, I am indebted to you.” 

“No,” said George. “I think that you too were his 
friend.” 

Coming as it did so soon after the sensational case of 
Kitty Dunlop, this portrait could not fail to be talked 
about. A deluge of commissions followed. The eccentric 
millionaire was famed for unearthing artists, and many 
found it wise to peg out claims alongside. The portrait 
was a tour de force , and yet George showed himself quite 
equal to the demand occasioned by these two so lucky 
advertisements. 

The Art Critic of the Cynic was once more on his heels. 

“Really,” George read, “we demand protection. The 
picture of the exhibition is certainly the portrait of Sir 
Joshua Felshead. It smashes every other picture in the 
room. But surely the public has a right to protection. 
The picture of the year at the Academy has sometimes 
been marked off by a rail. In the case of this portrait 
we should suggest a cage. It bites.” 

Though George made enemies of his unflattered sitters, 
Burlington House was kind, and it was not long before his 
name was fairly well known. At the Portraitists he was 
always excellently hung. Although photography was 
already luring the lazy middle-class away from paint, he 
was a rapid worker, and could hold his own where the 
laborious starved. His gentlemanly dress and tidy studio 
were in his favour. The type of person who commissions 
a portrait does not dote on chairs that have been casually 
smeared with yellow ochre. So too his application to the 


ON THE LADDER OF FAME 


175 

work on hand pleased chaperons, who saw that this excel- 
lent young man had no mind for flirting. 

With fortune grew ambition. It was ambition that made 
him refuse to pander to the pretty-pretty. Truth at this 
time came into fashion, and George was hailed in print 
by the up-to-date. The critics certainly read more into 
his method than he ever meant. They compared him to 
Velazquez — who left him cold — and hinted at Carolus 
Duran — none of whose paintings he had ever seen. If they 
had talked of Raeburn, they would have been nearer truth. 
But this giant Scot had not yet been exploited by the 
dealers, and a critic has to adjust his standard of Old 
Masters by the sales at Christie’s. The praise, however, 
proved so beneficial that George felt compelled by policy 
to evade, lest he should undeceive, his literary benefactors. 

The more he painted, the more he sympathised with 
those who at times do portraits below their reputation. 
Some of his sitters made his head ache. How was it pos- 
sible to depict repose in a butterfly who was on the wing 
from noon till night, who pouted all the time because she 
was so tired? 

Such success at such an early age was indeed enough to 
upset his balance. And yet he was sobered by the remem- 
brance of still greater fortune. Had not Lawrence stormed 
Society as a mere lad, and been forced on the Academy at 
twenty-one ? 

At times he met his comrades of St. Margaret’s; some 
still students, others fumbling for their feet. A piece of 
wedding cake arrived one day from Manchester “from Mr. 
and Mrs. Shanks,” so evidently all was well now in that 
quarter. Occasionally he heard from Ravin’s wife. But 
the letters were almost formal. What annoyed him more, 
they were ill-spelt. Reid was hopeless as a correspondent. 
George wrote to him time and again, only to receive an 
occasional post card in answer. To Mrs. Middleton he was 
ashamed to write, remembering his refusal of her so kind 
invitation. Yet she had not forgotten him, and after a 
long silence sent him a letter which brought back warm 


176 


HEARTS AND FACES 


memories of the days when they had met and talked with 
one another in Stonehaven. 

“Dear George,” it ran, 

“You must have thought I had forgotten you, but 
Nathaniel Reid has been here and, if you could have 
heard us talking about you, you would understand that 
you are very real to us. As usual I am overwhelmed with 
social obligations — hardly a minute to myself with the 
work of this large house and luncheons and committee 
meetings and calls and heavy Glasgow dinners. We are 
the victims of our own hospitality in this rich, pretentious 
city and make ourselves ill with mutual entertainments. 

“I might indeed have been too preoccupied to properly 
remember you, but this is a city which thinks itself an art 
centre. Our wealthy merchants and brokers decorate their 
mock feudal castles in Kelvinside with green and purple 
decorations which shout their Artiness at us. We are sup- 
posed to be the pinnacle of taste, breathing Lavery and 
Guthrie and Mackintosh, and cannot have our photographs 
taken without talking of tones and values. Yet I am glad, 
because each thought of art brings back to me the memory 
of my young friend, alas, so far away in London. 

“Well, as I was saying, Nathaniel Reid has been hang- 
ing pictures at an Exhibition in which your portrait of 
some society beauty — the Honourable Julia Faversham 
— has a place of honour. It was in the Academy, I under- 
stand, but is none the worse for wear. Nathaniel dragged 
me to it from the turnstiles, and stood before it chuckling 
till I thought he would explode. 

“ ‘Gosh/ he said, ‘Gosh ! I didna think the lad had 
it in him. You can see yon purple powder she put on 
her haughty cheeks, and the sniff she sniffed at him through 
her William the Conqueror nose the while he was paintin’ 
her. Gosh ! but he got even with her. She goes down 
to posterity as a vain, supercilious numskull.’ 

“You certainly did not flatter the lady, but she looks 
so real that it must be a true portrait. I suppose the 
Honourable Julia thinks so too, otherwise she would not 
let it be exhibited. 

“ ‘O wad some Power the giftie gie us 
To see oursels as ithers see us.’ 


ON THE LADDER OF FAME 


177 


“I can’t refrain from quoting some more of Nathaniel’s 
sayings: ‘Geordie has cut loose from his apron-strings. 
He stands on his ain feet now. There’s no fudgin’ about 
in yon picture. He just goes bang at it. Look at the 
big brushes he uses ! Gosh, and the palette knife’s spreadin’ 
the paint about just like butter. He’s as cocksure of him- 
self as Methuselah was about his next birthday. Who 
would have thought yon feckless loonie could learn so 
quick ?’ 

“I tell you this to show you that your old master is 
satisfied. Nathaniel can’t quite fathom the change in 
your character. He says you used to lack self-reliance, 
whereas now you are decisive and independent. I am not 
so surprised because I have seen the same thing happen 
with flowers. You take a plant that is sickly and back- 
ward, however much you may water it and feed it with 
fertiliser, then in despair you transplant it to another soil, 
less rich perhaps but sunnier, and leave it to look after 
itself. You come back in a month to find a strong vigorous 
growth with blossoms blowing and clean healthy leaves. 
The deeper it has been planted, the stronger the growth. 
So it often is with human souls. You were becoming 
a bookworm and recluse when Nathaniel took you into 
the open air. You grew up into a new man in the soil of 
art. He planted you deep when he forced you to go 
through all the drudgery, but that gave you a rooting and 
foundation which now give you confidence. Don’t you 
think the parallel is justified? Just take care that the 
weeds which grow so easily in your new garden don’t grow 
apace at your expense. 

‘‘Nathaniel thinks you are on a fair way to be a woman 
hater. ‘In the calf-love stage,’ he said, the lass tells 
the lad that all women are angels, knowin’ that she comes 
in with the crowd. She encourages him in sentimental 
foolishness, puttin’ rose spectacles over his eyes so that 
he omits to note that most angels are cats. If Geordie 
hadna passed that stage, he would have made the Honour- 
able Julia look like the cover for a sweetie box, instead of 
the hereditary footler that she.is.’ 

“I fear we are too provincial for you here. We have 
not many titled folk in Glasgow, but there are rich ambi- 
tious wives and daughters who can be persuaded to sit to a 


HEARTS AND FACES 


178 

fashionable portrait painter. So I still have a faint flicker 
of hope that I shall see you again. 

“Did you know that I am a grandmother now? Katie 
has a dear little boy — of course the loveliest boy there 
ever was. 

“Ever your affectionate friend, 

“Agnes Middleton.” 

This was the last letter he ever received from her. A 
few weeks later George received a memorial notice saying 
that Mrs. Middleton had died suddenly, deeply regretted 
by her loving family. 

George now found himself pursued by flatterers, idlers 
who called him “old fellow” and pestered him with ill- 
timed calls. Ambition made him rude. He grudged the 
minutes that might be spent in strengthening his right to 
fame. 

Ambition made him more complacent to the calls of 
patrons. He frequented a useful house at five o'clock, 
although he knew his hostess thought it part of the per- 
formance to hand her baby round like an article of refresh- 
ment. The baby was the one section of the human race 
that he felt should be idealised in art. 

Although with all his dandyism he would rather have 
worn a flowerpot than a silk hat on his head, he armed 
himself at times with fortune’s helmet. For as his skill 
advanced, especially in catching the character of men, so 
grew ambition. He would be another Differ or another 
Holbein, picturing the great men of his age, who shaped 
the policy, the thought, the happiness, the faith of their 
country. To reach that end he must relax no nerve. Had 
not Differ intrigued to gain the ear of Maximilian, partly 
for his debt, but mostly for a place in history? 

It was while lunching with a patron at the Junior Carlton 
that this desire matured. At the next table sat the Chan- 
cellor of the Exchequer and the Prime Minister — both 
silent, for the Premier was absorbed in thought, tracking 
perhaps some intricate entanglement of foreign policy. 

One lady offered to secure him sitters if he would paint 


ON THE LADDER OF FAME 


179 


her portrait free. George had wit to change the issue. 

“I will paint your portrait,” he replied, “not for what 
you offer, but because your face is beautiful.” 

She was woman of the world enough to disbelieve him, 
but she was enough woman of the world to repeat his ver- 
sion. The portrait won the Line at next Academy. 

So it was that he joined a sporting club, nominally to 
please a patron, really for bigger game — the human lion. 
Yet such sport was stolen from hours of sleep, and he would 
rise after a heavy night to catch the earliest sun, and pic- 
ture some blinking model. 

Who that had known his dreamy days at King’s could 
have prophesied this chase for fame ? 

To justify his connexion with such a club, George shared 
a fishing lease in Hampshire with the member who had put 
him up — Colonel Wodehouse, whose portrait with rod and 
basket made such a hit at the New Gallery. Colonel Wode- 
house was a devoted angler and introduced George to the 
persuasive charms of Jock Scott and Silver Doctor. After 
a day or two with the colonel in the fine art of entic- 
ing trout from a clear stream George began to grow more 
human. 

He learned the thrill of watching the ripple of flies lightly 
cast and drawn across the water, the rise, the strike, the 
throb and the dash for cover of the furious victim, the line 
rushing out of the reel with a sound like the tearing of silk, 
and then the playing with its triumphant finish or the hard 
luck of a lost fish. He learned to know the pools where at 
twilight the big fellows might be found — the deep pools 
with their cooling springs, the mouths of the tributary 
brooks, the deadwater just above the rapids, the eddy at 
the big rocks. From its grassy bank the iris bent over the 
deep reflection of its purple flowers. Here George learned 
a hundred lessons of light and shade, a hundred lessons of 
patience and diplomacy. 

The Chelsea Arts Club was the one place in London 
which he really found congenial. Although its members 
mostly represented the revolt against the Academy, they 


i8o 


HEARTS AND FACES 


were at least sincere. He shied at close acquaintanceship, 
partly through lack of time and partly for fear of cliques. 
At the same time he liked to listen to the discussions that 
might be heard there. 

It amused him, too, to compare the work and persons of 
these other artists. There seemed no rule except in the 
case of the obscene. The slipshod was so often dirty- 
minded. On the other hand, where work was good and 
true, the brains were settled in such curious bodies. A 
dashing, open-air landscapist was like an old woman, 
afraid to venture out without umbrella. A pioneer in por- 
traiture trembled at his own voice. The men of most 
established fame seemed to be the most modest. One in 
particular took his fancy, great in stature and in work, 
but so quiet and so human, that one could not but respect 
him. George had several chances of vising his studio, 
never taken. He did not wish to inflict himself, any more 
than he could suffer the jack-in-the-boxes who pestered 
him himself. 

His landscapes never sold, but they were an excuse for 
health, and took him every week-end when he was not 
fishing, and every summer to his quiet farm-house in the 
Chiltems. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


TWO UNEXPECTED INTERVIEWS 

F IVE years had passed since Ravin left for America. 

George had now a studio in Tite Street, with a 
man to look after it and him, a boy in buttons at 
the door, and a chef to cater to his somewhat 
fastidious tastes. In the ante-room a dreamy haired 
young Frenchman played airs on the piano. This was a hint 
that he took from the history of Monna Lisa, and on many 
of his sitters it certainly had excellent effect. It helped 
the painter too, for although he was so intent when at work 
that he hardly heard the music, his nerves were attuned, 
and he became more sympathetic. 

Some of his brother artists were inclined to criticise him 
for this luxury. They said he did it for advertisement, so 
that he should be known as the Artist Who Paints to Music. 
But he really was no charlatan, and let them cavil. 

He was on his feet now. He knew it, and confirmation 
came from an unexpected quarter. 

“I want to call on you one day,” said an old general 
whom he met at the house of the hostess with the baby. 
“It is about a portrait, but not my own. When would be 
convenient ?” 

“Say to-morrow afternoon.” 

“To-morrow it shall be.” 

“To-morrow” was an irritating day for George — bad 
light and an impatient sitter. He almost wished he had 
not asked the old man to come. He wanted to be alone. 
But after all it might mean business — that wonderful con- 
soler. Prompt to the minute — four o’clock had been named 
— the bell announced the general. 

181 


HEARTS AND FACES 


182 

A cup of tea, a cigar, and then to the matter in hand. 

“The fact is,” said his visitor, “I am on the committee of 
a club — you will have noticed the name on my card — and 
we have been looking for an artist to paint for us a picture 
of His Majesty the King. Now you ” 

“Pardon me,” interrupted George. “I may as well save 
time by explaining that it is out of the question. On 
principle I never paint from photographs.” 

The general smiled. 

“Who said photographs? If you will glance again at 
my card you will see that the club in question is — well, 
somewhat exclusive. It is not beyond the bounds of possi- 
bility that we might obtain for you some special sittings 
from His Majesty.” 

George flushed. 

“I beg your pardon. But surely — I am really not suf- 
ficiently well known. The King would only sit to an 
Academician, or to some artist of international reputation. 
Of course there are a few colonial artists who are specially 
favoured, but — but ” 

“But let me say my say. Frankly, I never heard of you 
myself until a week ago. I am a soldier, not a connoisseur, 
but you were recommended so emphatically by a man who 
ought to know, that I and my committee felt it our duty 
to approach you. It was at my desire that our hostess 
yesterday arranged our meeting. I am an old soldier, don’t 
you know, and like to reconnoitre.” 

It was nicely worded. 

“You will forgive me if I speak quite openly and say 
that you were not the first whom we approached. Money 
is no object in this affair, and we approached an artist — 
an Academician — of international reputation, declared 
indeed by many critics to be the foremost portrait painter 
of the day. , We offered him his own terms, but to our 
embarrassment his terms were quite impracticable — he him- 
self admitted it. Well, he knows best. He actually 
declined to take the commission unless he could command 
the presence of His Majesty for a whole day at a time, and 


TWO UNEXPECTED INTERVIEWS 183 

for an indefinite number of days — it might be two or it 
might be twenty — just as often as he found it necessary to 
complete a picture to his own artistic satisfaction. My 
dear sir, in the case of one so busy as the King, in this his 
Coronation year, the stipulations were absurd — out of the 
question. 

“To tell the truth, he informed us that we were not the 
first to approach him with a similar request. 'Well then/ 
I said, 'since you cannot undertake this work yourself, 
whom would you recommend? Is there any rising young 
artist whose work is likely to be of permanent value and a 
credit to our club?’ 'Rising artist?' he said. ‘That is 
another matter. Will you take a sporting chance? There 
is one rising artist — not a popular artist, at least as yet, 
but quite remarkably able, who would be glad of such 
a chance. If I myself had this commission to offer he 
would be my choice.' Without further palaver, let me say 
that yours was the name he gave us." 

Although no names were mentioned, George at once 
knew who alone could be his benefactor. He could hardly 
believe his good fortune. What a compliment ! 

"I hardly know what to say,” he ventured at last. 

“Don’t you think you could tackle it?" 

“That's not what bothers me. Of course I could. Damn 
it, the King is just like any other man. Give me three 
sittings of an hour apiece and I’ll do it. But what I am 
thinking of is this, that I should have been recommended 
by him of all men. I know the man you mean. It is 
extraordinarily kind of him. What a splendid fellow he 
is — the artist, I mean." 

George rose from his chair and paced the studio. 

“Well," said the general, chuckling at the effect of his 
bombshell. “What’s the verdict now?" 

“I don’t know what to say. I tell you I don’t feel sure 
that you aren’t making a fool of me. Besides, it’s all very 
well for — for — the artist in question to hand on this com- 
mission to me, but what about the King himself, and the 
Lord High Chamberlain, and the Lord High Everything 


HEARTS AND FACES 


184 

Else, what will they say when they are told that this 
portrait is to be painted by any one who is not at least an 
A.R.A. ?” 

“That’s our affair, not yours,” said the general. “And 
to be frank, we have already sounded the Lord High Every- 
thing Else, who told us to go to the devil. But I am an old 
soldier, sir, and something of a tactician, if I may say so in 
all due modesty, so I went not to the devil but to one whom 
I know to be many a man’s good angel, namely, Her Most 
Gracious Majesty the Queen. Let me tell you that she has 
taken an interest in this budding genius, and has assured 
me that if the Lord High Everything Else won’t let the King 
be painted by you, she will sit to you herself. Now what 
do you say to that?” 

George gasped. 

“I think I’ll have a drink,” he said, and touched a 
button. 

“Glasses for two.” 

As the man brought in the whiskey George pulled him- 
self together. 

“This is my favourite blend,” he said, “thirty-five 
different brews — wonderfully mellow.” 

“Perhaps my hand is steadier,” said the general, taking 
the decanter. “Say when.” 

“Stop! Stop!” 

“The Queen! God bless her! Where did you say you 
get it from? Just let me take a note of the address — we 
must have it for our cellar at the club. Thanks. No, not 
another just yet — well, only a little one.” 

They looked at each other and laughed. 

“Gad!” said the general, “I wish I was young again 
like you — all my battles to fight over again — eh, what?” 

“There will be blood spilt over this,” said George, “bad 
blood, I fear. The artist is a jealous brute. However, I’m 
not afraid. And if your committee will give me the chance, 
I’ll put my best work into this portrait.” 

“My dear fellow, I know you will. We’ve been round 
the shows looking at your work, and we came to the con- 


TWO UNEXPECTED INTERVIEWS 185 

elusion that you were the man for us. The portrait of 
Admiral Benbow — Gad! it’s a masterpiece. But of course 
you will understand there are some preliminaries to go 
through : you may have to be presented at Court, we must 
mollify the Lord High, etc. Perhaps you would condescend 
to paint a pretty portrait of his daughter, and we shall have 
to wait till these Coronation festivities are over— probably 
must wait till autumn. But you are young yet. What 
do a few months matter to you?” 

What indeed! Such a commission would be the making 
of him. No more chasing for commissions. He could pick 
and choose among celebrities. 

“You’ll come and dine with me at the Club and meet a 
few of the members. What do you say to Tuesday of next 
week ? Very well, that’s fixed — seven- thirty. Such a charm- 
ing studio you have here. Not a married man? We’ll go 
to the Empire afterwards.” 

The general rose and walked round examining the 
pictures on the wall. 

“By the way,” he said casually, “we haven’t said any- 
thing about terms.” 

“I usually get a hundred,” said George. 

“Better make it two-fifty. We shall be more likely then 
to realise the value of the portrait. Ahem! some fascinat- 
ing studies here. Where the deuce do you get these 
unsophisticated ladies from? — Garden of Eden, I presume.” 

He stopped in front of one, examining it attentively. 

“Very, very charming. What a curious resemblance! 
Do you know, I could swear this was a portrait, a very 
unsophisticated portrait, of a lady I know.” 

“That?” said George. “That was a sketch I made, let’s 
see, five or six years ago. A professional model — I don’t 
think you would be likely to have met her.” 

“Well, my dear chap, let me give you my advice: don’t 
you exhibit that sketch without first consulting your 
solicitors. You will have an action from the lady for 
defamation of character, or I’m a juggins. By the way, 
that reminds me, are you the artist? Yes, you are— you 


HEARTS AND FACES 


1 86 

and Kitty Dunlop. Well, I needn’t warn you — you’ve 
been there before. But as for this picture here, why, there 
are a dozen people I know who would swear that this was 
Mrs. Wolseley Greville.” 

He was too intent on the picture to notice George’s 
sudden confusion. 

“Ever hear of the lady? Wife of the man who runs the 
Minerva Theatre, a most superlative bounder; but she 
herself is quite an attractive person — French extraction, 
I understand.” 

“I go so seldom to the play,” George answered, recover- 
ing himself. “I always avoid the theatrical set.” 

“Don’t blame you. Well, well, a most remarkable co- 
incidence! I shall tell her next time I see her. And now, 
my dear fellow, I must be off. It’s understood then, if 
we can fix up the sittings, you shall be the artist. That 
is to say, if I have my way. But in the meanwhile say 
nothing — time enough to talk when the portrait is finished 
and approved. And of that, for my part, I have no doubt. 
Good-bye.” 

After the old man had gone George sank into a seat by 
the window, lost in thought. 

So then Ethel had returned to London. She was in 
some sort of Society. He might meet her any day. 

And he was to paint the portrait of the King! 

Fame evidently had her eye on George. Hardly had he 
got over the surprise of the general’s proposal when a note 
came from the art critic who had been the honoured guest 
at Clotter’s unforgettable Show Sunday. 

“Dear Mr. Grange, 

“Talking the other day to my friend, the Editor of the 
Studio, I suggested a series of articles on the younger por- 
trait painters, to which he agreed. Your name occurred 
and met with his approval. I write to ask whether I may 
have the privilege of a few intimate moments — interview 
is too banal a word — so that I may be able to give a more 
vital note to my impressions of your work. 

“Yours very sincerely, 

“Archibald Roe.” 


TWO UNEXPECTED INTERVIEWS 187 

“Better make it lunch,” George wrote in reply, naming 
a day. 

The art critic arrived in an absent-minded way half an 
hour too soon. He had apparently forgotten the previous 
meeting, or was too absorbed in himself to make the effort 
of recognition. George was to be merely an incident in his 
forthcoming article. 

“My theory of portraiture is that it should express the 
soul of the age. It may be the age of romance, or the age 
of costume, the age of intrigue or the age of affectation. 
The portrait painters who have lived have all portrayed 
their age, not merely their sitters. Now Velazquez ” 

But Velazquez was a red .rag to George. He groaned to 
think that five years had passed and yet this critic fellow 
was still the same. Fortunately the door opened with 
“Lunch is served.” 

The menu had been well thought out, for George remem- 
bered that this interviewer had the air of being carefully fed. 
Mr. Roe was distinctly present-bodied; and, as one dainty 
dish followed another, he realised that the wines were good. 
Coming down to earth, he discussed the merits of Jules and 
the Cafe Royal, of this bouquet and of that. It was not 
till they came back to the studio that he suddenly remem- 
bered he had a mission. 

“You will excuse my mentioning it,” he said, over a 
particularly choice cigar, “but for an artist you do yourself 
remarkably well. We shall be good friends, I see. You 
are a man of my own tastes. So many artists, even por- 
trait painters, are so primitive. How can they understand 
the world in which their patrons move unless they too are 
men of the world. This age is the age of materialism, men- 
tal and physical. We desire an accurate picture without 
undue imagination of the men and women and landscape 
and surroundings that we know. We demand a scientific 
technique from our artists, and that portrait painters should 
live as gentlemen. The days of Bohemia are past. Art is 
now a profession, particularly the art of portrait painting, 
and the professional man must be civilised if he wishes to 


i88 


HEARTS AND FACES 


retain his practice, his clientele. The court painter has 
given place to the painter of society. Now Velazquez ” 

“Creme de menthe, kiimmel, or old brandy?” 

“Thanks. Ah, your cellar is worthy of your chef. But 
what was I saying? Yes, Art — the soul of its age — now 
Velazquez portrayed the age of courtliness, not merely the 
portrait d’apparat, but the age of cultured chivalry: quiet 
dames, men of breeding. He lived in courts and in the 
king’s air — he was court painter par excellence in a courtly 
age. And then his technique — marvellous, marvellous!” 

He wandered on, Velazquez this and Velazquez that. 
Irritated to rudeness, George interrupted. 

“Would you like to look at some of my studies? Which 
of my portraits have you seen?” 

“All in good time, but I want you to understand my 
point of view. When I pass through an exhibition of 
modern portraits I always test them by this measure, do 
they or do they not portray the soul of the age? It is 
not sufficient that they are dexterous presentments, well 
designed, good likenesses. Do they mirror this age? Now 
Velazquez ” 

“Mr. Roe,” said George abruptly, “if you mention 
Velazquez again, I shall scream. Are you going to write 
this article about him or about me? Leave the other man 
out. He’s a dead and goner.” 

Archibald Roe was imperturbable. 

“Dead, alas, yes; and a ‘goner’ — horrible phrase. You 
are still young, I perceive; from Scotland, I presume — 
another of those young men from the North. No, my 
dear sir, not altogether gone. The perfect painter cannot 
die. I know your point of view — you are a modern and 
are jealous of the competition of the Old Masters. We who 
are critics and students, professors, not practictioners of 
Art, are free from such personal bias. We are the true 
amateurs. Yet I realise your position ” 

“Well, I don’t,” said George. “I thought I was here 
to be interviewed, but it seems that your editor has sent 
you to give me a free lecture on Art.” 


TWO UNEXPECTED INTERVIEWS 189 

Archibald Roe glanced curiously at his host. 

“You are very practical, but not quite up-to-date. The 
kind of interview you seem to look for is much more dead 
than Velazquez. If you read some of my little monographs 
you will see how we do it nowadays.” 

“I never read books on Art.” 

“Arrogance of youth! How much it misses! How 
much it has to learn ! How can you thread the currents of 
art unless you take the direction of the pilot? How can 
you understand the soul?” 

“Damn the soul!” said George. “I don't paint souls. 
I paint pictures.” 

Roe shook his head. 

“This is, as I said before, a materialistic age, and you 
paint the age, or else you fail.” 

“The soul of a soulless age.” 

“Quite so — quite so — excellent. Ha! ha! I must make 
a note of that, illustrated, shall we say, by your portrait of 
Sir Joshua Felshead.” 

“You remember that?” George was somewhat molli- 
fied. 

“It shocked me inexpressibly. But by the way, talking 
of illustrations, let me have a look at some of your master- 
pieces.” 

George touched the bell, and his man carried out for 
their inspection a procession of canvases. 

“Enough !” he said at last. “Those which I have selected 
will do.” 

He looked round the wall till his eye rested on the 
sketch of Ethel. 

“Let’s have this as well,” he said. “Just what he 
would like, my editor I mean.” 

George hesitated. Should he risk it? Would Ethel 
ever see it if he did? Perhaps it might annoy her — even get 
her into trouble. 

“I— I had rather not say yes till I have asked the 
model’s permission. That is a sketch which— well, does not 
belong entirely to me.” 


190 


HEARTS AND FACES 


“Never mind. After all, we are dealing with portraits 
mostly. By the way, have you had any distinguished 
sitters, Royalties? To be sure, you are young yet.” 

Again that curious look at George. 

“I suppose/’ he cleared his throat as he said it, “if 
I were to introduce a good client, you would allow a 
commission ?” 

The turn was so unexpected that George asked his 
visitor to repeat the remark. Yet he was so used to the 
suggestion from all sorts of people that there was nothing 
very strange about it. He considered for a moment. 

“Why, yes, I suppose so. It would depend ” 

“Depend on what?” 

“Whether the artist had the soul of the age.” 

Roe laughed. 

“He comes from Scotland. He lives as a man of the 
world, not as an ordinary old-fashioned artist. He is the 
very clever hero of a certain famous libel case — the staging 
of that play was quite superb. He is most anxious to 
bring his interviewer to the point — very practical — eh, what ? 
Surely we understand each other, Mr. Grange.” 

“I’m not quite certain yet,” said George. “I’ll wait till 
I see what you say about me in your article. After that 
perhaps we can talk business.” 

“Right, right, my canny friend. If you can persuade 
yourself to read that one little monograph on Art, you will 
understand the modem interview. And you will find that 
you have not spread your table in vain.” 

With that parting shot, Archibald Roe made his adieux. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


ETHEL AGAIN 

N EXT day was Sunday. As he passed along the 
Fulham Road he noticed a placard on what 
seemed to be the porch of a church. It read: 

OCTAVE OF THE SEVEN DOLOURS 
HIGH MASS 

SUNG BY FATHER PHILIP 
WILL BE CELEBRATED AT 
ELEVEN O’CLOCK 

The title caught his fancy. It was already past the 
hour. He had never been in a Roman Catholic Church 
before. 

At the end of a corridor he turned through swing doors 
on the right into a Gothic interior, heavy with incense. A 
tenor was singing. The church was full, but a verger 
found him a seat at the back, grumbling that no fee was 
offered. 

The service appealed to George. With half-shut eyes he 
watched the flame of slender candles mellow against the 
vestments of the priests. 

Then came a sermon from a text in Jeremiah : “Great 
as the sea, Mother of Sorrows, is thy sorrow.” 

The preacher told them of the seven sorrows of the 
mother of Jesus, and how bitter was her grief on the 
Hill of Calvary. Never did mother lose such a son! 

A melancholy voice. 

Behind the preacher hung a figure of the Christ nailed to 
the Cross, and with sudden gesture he pointed to this, 

191 


192 


HEARTS AND FACES 


picturing that last terrible scene. The listeners swayed 
with him as he turned, as if under the spell of vision. 

Fascinated, George forgot surroundings. The heart that 
so long had slept was once more stirred. He realised that 
he was alone in the world, alone in selfish absorption. 
Could he find new life in a religion such as this, in the 
contemplation of the Cross and of that great sacrifice? 

He was roused by a sob. A few seats in front of him sat 
a lady, beautifully dressed. So far George had not seen 
her face, but then she turned it for a moment and he saw 
that it was Ethel — the model — Wolseley Greville’s wife. 

What was she doing here? Ah, yes, she had become a 
Catholic. She said that in her letter. Perhaps she had 
become devout. Should he speak to her at the end of the 
service ? 

Just then she rose to pass out. Instinct made him rise 
too. She saw him, but went on and, after bowing to the 
altar, hurried to the door. 

George thought she was avoiding him, but when he too 
went out he found her at the entrance. She offered him 
her hand. 

“May I speak to you for a moment?” she said half 
shyly. “I want to thank you for letting me down so easily 
that time. I took your lesson to heart. Did you ever get 
my letter — one I wrote from Paris? I half expected an 
answer. But perhaps I was better forgotten.” 

“I am sorry I was so remiss,” said George. “I always 
meant to write. Anyhow we have met again.” Then, 
after a pause, “You returned to your husband?” 

“I did better. I reformed him. He is working hard 
and getting on awfully well. Haven’t you noticed his 
name in the papers? He is a theatrical manager, quite 
important already, though he has been at it only a few 
years. With capital you can do so much. We are quite 
reconciled, and he is a new man. You must come and 
see us.” 

George bowed, not knowing what to say. He remem- 
bered the scene on the cliff at Dunnottar, the story of the 


ETHEL AGAIN 


193 


unfortunate barmaid, the attempt at murder, the pitiful 
fate of Molly Arnold, and wondered what sort of repent- 
ance this could be. 

“How’s Art?” she went on gaily. “Oh dear, what times 
those were! It all seems a bad dream now. To think 
that once I was an artist’s model !” 

Just then the people streamed out from the church. 

“Walk along with me a little,” she said. “We live in 
South Kensington.” 

George saw more difference in her now that he had 
talked to her. Good living evidently suited her. She 
had lost her old sharp look. Her voice was quieter. 

“Do you often come to this church?” he asked. 

“This particular church seems to appeal to me. It is 
maintained by the Order of the Servites — perhaps you 
have read about them? They devote themselves to the 
one aspect of our Lady as the Lady of the Seven Sorrows 
or Dolours — a beautiful idea, is it not? They are the 
sorrows of a mother, and you know my history — I told 
you — the baby that we had and lost.” 

“Yes, yes,” said George. “You told me in your letter 
you were trying to recover it. So you did not succeed ?” 

“No, no. I have crossed over to Paris dozens of times, 
but it is useless. I fear she is lost for ever. You under- 
stand me. And now that I have the money and the home 
for her it is no use.” 

“I am indeed sorry.” 

“You will come to see us, won’t you now?” 

“Yes ; but later on.” 

“Thanks,” she said. “Let me give you this little book. 
It is the Servite manual and tells you all about our Lady’s 
sorrows. When you read the Sixth Dolour you will remem- 
ber me. Don’t think it blasphemy,” she added quickly. 
“I know I haven’t a fine mind, and perhaps you may think 
me wicked to compare my sorrow with hers. But I can’t 
help the way in which I have been made. And remember,” 
she said, holding out her hand to say good-bye, “I owe you 
a debt I never can repay.” 


194 


HEARTS AND FACES 


“Good-bye,” said George, and there was that old lump 
again in his throat as he watched her slip round the corner. 

When he got home he turned to the manual and read the 
supplication to which she had referred. 

“I compassionate thee, O most Holy Mother, with all 
the tenderness of my heart in the extreme desolation. He 
who was all thy delight, the centre of thy affections, thy 
Son and thy God, lies in the darkness of the tomb, and thou 
art under the sway of a sorrow immense as the sea. O 
dear Mother of Dolours, I would that I could console thee 
in thy grief. With the grace of Jesus and thine own aid, 
I promise that I will no more renew thy sorrows with my 
sins, but will serve my God faithfully on earth, that I 
may come to share with thee the joys of Paradise. Amen.” 

“I wonder,” he said, half aloud, as he read it over, “is 
she sincere?” 

His fingers turned the pages idly, till by chance he came 
to the tabulated lists of plenary and partial indulgences. 

Here was one: — 

MARIA DESOLATA. 

Plenary — On receiving Easter Communion, after having 
meditated on the Desolation of Our Lady, for at least 
half an hour, between 3 p.m. on Good Friday and 
10 a.m. on Holy Saturday. 

Partial — 300 days, any week, between 3 p.m. on Friday 
and Sunday morning. 

A sneer came involuntarily to his lips. 

“An easy road to virtue,” he thought. 


CHAPTER XXV 


PULLING THE WIRES 

T HIS rencontre with Ethel mightily disturbed his 
peace of mind. The six years’ fortifying of him- 
self against all thought save of work broke down 
in a moment. It seemed two days ago that he 
was listening to her self-told tragedy. It was just yester- 
day that he received her letter from Paris, a little happier, 
but yet so sad. To-day the thread was taken up again. 

Ethel differed from the usual woman whom he met in his 
professional life. She was not just the subject of a picture. 
He had heard her sobbing, had seen the bruises on her arm, 
had been entrusted with her secrets. Out of the depths 
he had lifted her. And now it seemed as if she might come 
again into his life. 

George was not certain that he felt so much attracted by 
her now in her rich self-content as when he knew her in her 
misery. He hated the patronage of money, and all the 
while she spoke to him she seemed to say, “I am well off, 
I can afford this beautiful gown. I can give you a good 
dinner. I am my own mistress. You can’t win me so 
easily now; if I give myself to you, it will be as a favour.” 
Yes, she had encouraged him — he knew the type — damn 
her! 

She spoke as if she were playing a part. Religion was a 
pose with her. She thought it might appeal to him to play 
repentant Magdalene. Not that she really had gone wrong 
— he had saved her from that. 

Bah! these were foolish fancies. He was only a casual 
acquaintance after all, had not seen her for six years, and 
then only for half an hour. This was just her polite society 

195 


196 


HEARTS AND FACES 


manner, she could not help inviting him. He would meet 
a dozen others at her table — the usual futile crowd. And 
then her husband — ugh! 

Of course her religion was a sham. It was for money 
that she joined the Roman Catholic Church. 

So ran his thoughts. 

Yet in Ethel’s case religion was no cloak. Morality is so 
very much a point of view. The creature of mere circum- 
stance passes through varying phases, ashamed when she 
does wrong, and glowing with her righteousness. We, the 
impassionate spectators, give her credit for deliberate 
choice of roads when she herself considers only present 
comfort. Why should this womanly frame not be attuned 
to sensuous ritual? 

Life for Ethel had been no summer holiday. Her youth 
was drudgery, romance had darkened into reality, the 
chance of motherly happiness had been lost through poverty, 
pain had driven her to a precipice. Then came luxurious 
ease. 

Ease could not give her dreamless nights. Faces re- 
curred, faces reproached her, faces threatened her. Re- 
ligion could surely bring her respite. In the shadows of the 
night she could seek refuge with Our Lady of Sorrows. 

Ethel had too close acquaintance with the looking-glass 
not to know her physical charms. She knew she had made 
an impression on George, who on his part had roused her 
admiration. His keen, intellectual face, not unhandsome, 
caught her fancy. His, too, was a generous nature. How 
many men who had known her as he had known her would 
have spoken to her as he had spoken to her? 

She said to herself that she would not pursue him, but 
that she would be glad to meet him again. She found that 
he was making a name for himself in portraiture. She 
wished he would call, yet she could not blame him for 
staying away. 

A change in her relations with her husband made her 
think of George still more. She began to have a horrible 
suspicion that her money was in danger. 


PULLING THE WIRES 


197 


George, for his part, was not oblivious. Now that he had 
met Ethel again it seemed that every one was talking of her. 
She held a stall at a charity bazaar, assisted by a Duchess, 
and her photograph was in all the illustrated papers. An 
officer whose portrait he was painting asked if he knew 
that pretty Mrs. Greville. Another sitter, a lady, offered 
him a seat in a box for which her dear friend, Ethel Greville, 
had sent her tickets. Wouldn’t Mr. Grange care to meet 
her? She would make such a charming portrait. 

Other incidents constantly recalled her. The wife of a 
patron with whom he was dining had noticed him in the 
Servite Church. Was he a Catholic? No, only a chance 
visitor. How interesting! Would he care to come next 
Sunday to the four o’clock Benediction at Farm Street ? 

George hesitated for a moment and then expressed him- 
self delighted. 

As they sat over their wine, another of the guests smiled 
at him and said: 

“Take care, Mr. Grange. Our hostess means to make 
a Catholic of you. Farm Street is the great Jesuit centre 
and all the sensational conversions are announced from 
there. The 4 o’clock Benediction is particularly meant for 
the intellectuals.” 

This however only added spice to George’s curiosity. 
The charm of the service he had already attended was not 
yet forgotten. His mind was of the type that jolts from 
one groove to another. For the moment he inclined to 
religion, especially to that sensuous rite of incense, of 
music and of colour. 

His hostess brought a lady friend with her to the service 
— poor diplomacy, though no doubt well meant tribute to 
Mrs. Grundy. For this friend was patchouli’d overmuch. 
In vain the appeal to the finer emotions laid out by clever 
priests. Beside him was the reek of Bond Street. 

And yet it might have been impressive. From before 
the altar came a low voice, hailing the sweet Mother. 
“Ave Maria , gratia plena” A deeper harmony grew out of 
this, a harmony to which another choir gave answer. The 


198 


HEARTS AND FACES 


sermon was inlaid with cunning logic, of what avail against 
the loathsome air? He felt inclined to hit the woman 
and get out. 

George put off his promised call on Ethel. The ordeal 
of having to face her husband was too much. Reformed 
him? Perhaps she had, perhaps not. There were nasty 
stories still about this Wolseley Greville, judging from 
some casual inquiries. A man of such a past was not likely 
to be changed. No doubt he found it policy to humour 
his rich wife. 

Besides, George had learned to hate the people of the 
theatre. In his first London nights, when he haunted 
galleries, he had built fairy castles for the heroines of the 
stage. Their faces haunted him, and he heard the virtues 
in their tender voices. Then came the incident of Kitty 
Dunlop. From her he despised the whole profession. 

Ethel’s face was not the only thing that kept George 
awake at nights. He had his sleepless ambition, and the 
general’s visit made that more incessant in his thoughts 
than ever. 

The Tuesday named by his host for the dinner at the 
club had come and gone. Not without trepidation George 
had shaken hands with half a dozen stiff Society men. It 
was an uncongenial meal. George knew that he was under 
inspection, and before very long suspected that the general 
was more enthusiastic about the proposed commission than 
his fellow members. So far from being almost won, the 
battle was just beginning, and there were others even 
than the Lord High Everything Else to be propitiated with 
appropriate gifts. If his pride were not involved in seeing 
the matter out to the end, George might have cried off. 

However, he was on his mettle now, and meant to hold 
what he had got. He picked out the two of the Committee 
who seemed to be the greediest and prevailed on them to 
accept his hospitality. The general came as well, of 
course, and smiled understanding^ at George as the very 
recherche meal progressed and he perceived the artist’s 
strategy. 


PULLING THE WIRES 


199 

“By Gad!” he said in an undertone, as they adjourned 
to the studio, “the cleverest dinner I ever tasted.” 

Of course they wanted to see his work and they were now 
in the humour to be fed with nudes, of which, fortunately 
for the hopes of his commission, George had a liberal 
supply. 

The Lord High Everything Else was not so hard a nut 
to crack as his more sophisticated daughter, a darling of 
the most exasperating carelessness of others’ time. When 
she did come to his studio, she was always in a hurry to be 
off, and brought with her other butterflies who had the 
manners of their kind. Before he could complete the 
portrait the season ended, and she was off to Scotland, 
leaving him in an atrocious temper. He saw the prize 
slipping from him. 

No wonder that he became morose, suspecting even the 
general of breaking faith, only to realise next day that 
the notion was absurd. At last he went to Harley Street. 

“Go to the country for a couple of months,” said the 
specialist, “some quiet place with green fields. There’s 
nothing wrong with you except this London.” 

A week later, down at his old haunt in the Chilterns, 
George knew that Harley Street was right. Early hours, 
simple food, the charm of quiet landscape all brought back 
his normal balance. If he thought of London faces, it was 
not so much of those who were concerned in this great 
possible commission, as of the face of Ethel. He wondered 
whether she ever thought of him, or whether he had merely 
flitted through her vision. Was it policy for him to call 
on her? Did her husband really treat her well? When 
would he ever meet a woman he could really like? How 
long was he to live this lonely life? 

Yet, in the obsession of his daily work out in the open 
air, even Ethel’s memory was obscured, and when he went 
back to London, he was clear-brained and healthy, fit for 
anything. 

About the third week in October a note came from the 
general. 


200 


HEARTS AND FACES 


“My dear Grange, 

“It's all clear as daylight now. That article in the 
Studio has done the trick. I was in Scotland shooting 
with the Lord High Everything Else, and some one of 
our party had a copy sent to him. Missie got hold of it 
and so discovered all your greatness. She is impatient 
to return to town to be finished off, and has been chanting 
your praises all day long to her august father. Indeed I 
was eventually packed off to town to lay hold of you and 
see that you did not run away. She has made the old 
man promise to fix up the sittings of H.M., and I can see 
now that she means to eclipse her friends by arranging to 
have her portrait in the same Academy by the same artist 
as that of our most gracious Sovereign/’ 

In the quiet of his country life George had almost for- 
gotten Archibald Roe, but Archibald Roe had evidently 
not forgotten George. Hurrying through breakfast, he 
stepped out to secure a copy of this fortunate issue. 

It was overwhelming. 

He was the subject of the opening article; and, if Archi- 
bald Roe was right, George was well on the road to immor- 
tality. First of all there was a disquisition on Velazquez 
and Rembrandt with the familiar claptrap about the soul 
of the age. Then the following: 

“To understand George Grange’s work, you must have 
met George Grange himself and seen George Grange at 
work. By ‘work’ I do not mean merely the laying of 
paint upon the canvas. The portrait painter must be 
a student of human nature, and human nature does not 
sit all the time upon the model’s throne or in the studied 
attitudes of the conventional portrait. Human nature par- 
takes of food, plays games, talks business, and the student 
who would understand his fellows must mix among them 
if he desires to interpret anything besides the superficial 
form and colour of this passing show. 

“No sooner had I entered his studio in Tite Street than 
I felt I was face to face, heart to heart, with a man of the 
world, yet not a worldly man, conversant with the foibles 
of daily life as lived by people who are not merely painters. 


PULLING THE WIRES 


201 


Add to this the intense application of his race — he is a 
Scot — the technical skill which belongs to himself alone 
of all our younger men, and we have the makings of a 
consummate portraitist. 

“How well I remember the shock which thrilled me 
five years ago when I met that wonderful canvas of Sir 
Joshua Felshead! Is this Sargent? I said, painted under 
another name, or is it Velazquez come to life again in the 
spirit of the twentieth century? Who is this forthright 
realist, materialist, who defies convention and utters the 
living truth? How many millions would any one else 
than Sir Joshua Felshead have paid not to be portrayed 
this way? Yet I saw the annotation in the Catalogue 
referring to this picture, ‘Presentation Portrait — Himself 
to Himself/ and knew that the greatest connoisseur of 
modern times was satisfied with the rude rendering. 

“From that moment I had my eye on this young painter 
— he was evidently young — an older man would not have 
had such ‘nerve,'* as the Americans say. I rendered tribute 
to his Portrait of a Wicked Woman , with its shimmer of 
gold and green, to his fairylike Cynthia Despard , to his 
homely Alderman Adams, to his sailor-hearted Admiral 
Benbow. Most fascinating of all are his Society women, 
with their easy condescension, their high-bred daintiness, 
their pride of feature. These we can feel are women of 
the world, painted by a man of the world. Only one who 
has breathed their air could so admirably have caught their 
atmosphere. 

“It is not often that we find so young a painter so 
happy in his renderings of both men and women. That 
skill as a rule comes only after long and bitter experience. 
But George Grange has an old head on young shoulders. 
Nothing could disturb his equanimity. He analyses and 
he sympathises. If one might dare to make so mixed a 
metaphor, one might say that his head and his heart work 
hand in hand. He is a confident painter, with the con- 
fidence that comes of knowledge both of the human form 
and of human nature. 

“Fortunately for his future, his name is not associated 
with any clique. He is neither Academician nor anti- 
Academe. Not being an ex-Slade student, he has escaped 
the New English Art Club, and he has not advertised him- 


202 


HEARTS AND FACES 


self sufficiently to be desired by the International. [Edi- 
tor’s Note: — We assume no responsibilities for these 
opinions, which are those of Mr. Roe.] The road lies 
straight before him, sans barrier, sans encumbrance. Who 
shall say how far he shall step forward on his high 
destiny ?” 

Pleased as he was by this effusion, George was not so vain 
as to forget that all this praise was interested. Mr. Archi- 
bald Roe had too plainly revealed his business-like inten- 
tions ere they had parted. This was his proof of bona 
tides. Well, in the world of business, perhaps it was part of 
the game. He sat down at his writing desk and, without 
further ado, wrote as follows: 

“Dear Mr. Roe, 

“Many thanks. Twenty per cent. 

“Yours, 

“George Grange.” 

As for the Royal portrait, within a fortnight everything 
was fixed. The sittings were arranged for the following 
February, early in the month so that it should be in time 
for the Academy. It was to be hung there if successful 
as a Command picture. George had not been presented 
to the King himself, but preliminaries were arranged so 
that he should make his due appearance at a Levee, shortly 
before the sittings should commence. 

His star was high in the ascendant. He was elected to 
the Council of the Portraitists — this without canvassing. 
Yet occasionally he was reminded that good fortune had 
its attendant perils. Clotter one day met him in Pall Mall. 
The amateur, who had recently returned from Paris, now 
lived in the celebrity of his artistic set. 

“The very man I wanted,” cried Clotter, clapping his 
shoulder. “I have a treat in store for you. Come and 
dine with me to-night at the Carlton. No, I will take no 
refusal. You must meet my old friend and dear master, 
Spellagro, the great Spanish portraitist. Ah, he is one of 
the real immortals. You know his magnificent portrait of 


PULLING THE WIRES 


203 


the Comtesse de Blagovestchenk, and that great, that 
masterly rendering of Menzel — au moment imprevu , don’t 
you know — unique blend of Velazquez and Parisian 
esprit.” 

George confessed a vague recollection of the latter por- 
trait in an American Magazine. 

“No doubt, no doubt! Just come from the States, 
passing through London on his way to Paris. He is an idol 
there. But you will come.” 

Such importunity is best evaded by submission, so 
George accepted. 

“The fact is,” said Clotter, who arrived at the restaurant 
before his Spanish guest, “I want you to do me a favour. 
Spellagro has had a most unfortunate experience on the 
other side — under a cloud, so to speak, owing to his Spanish 
blood and ignorance of our Anglo-Saxon notions. To be 
frank, he got mixed up in a divorce case over there, kissed 
a sitter, don’t you know, and was found out. Result, he got 
no more Society portraits — husbands, fathers and brothers 
objected, don’t you know. Wouldn’t let their womenfolk 
sit to him. Absurd that genius should suffer for such trifles ! 
When you have seen his work you will understand — glor- 
ious, I tell you, nothing like it since Velazquez.” 

George groaned inwardly. 

“And now,” continued this Niagara, “you are the very 
man. I hear you have been elected to the Council of the 
Portraitists. With your influence you can get some of 
Spellagro’s portraits well hung at your next Exhibition. 
He thinks of setting up here in London. In Paris there are 
so many brilliant artists — I mean — that is to say — of course, 
he is far above them, Carolus not excepted — but you under- 
stand, he thinks that there is more money to be made here, 
and if he makes furore at your Exhibition, he will have all 
our beauties at his feet. But here he is. Ah, cher maitre!” 

The name and tale had led George to expect a killing 
Andalusian, romance clinging to his eyelashes. He saw 
instead a little, snub-nosed man, so straggly that he seemed 
held together only by his clothes. The host called the 


204 


HEARTS AND FACES 


abortion “cher maitre” till George felt sick. The little man 
was in one way worthy of his reputation. He ogled every 
woman in the room. George, as he compared this Simian 
genius to the English types at the neighbouring tables, 
wished him joy of his chase. 

Next day Spellagro’s pictures were inspected. They were 
what George expected — brilliant in drawing, but in colour 
vicious, the work of a decadent. He escaped as politely as 
he could, firmly resolved to keep them out if he possibly 
could. 

The incident, however, left a nasty taste. These were 
the penalties of success. Was his time to be taken up by 
backdoor canvassing? And what new danger was this 
that he heard of, a portrait painter’s career ruined by his 
private reputation ? He had never thought of that. Lucky 
for him he had kept so clear of women. He must be careful. 
One might so easily get mixed up in the intrigues that lurk 
behind so many portraits. 

And now above all things he must be particularly careful. 
There was this portrait of the King, on which his whole 
career depended. A breath of scandal would annihilate 
his chances ; he had seen it happen before in the case of a 
brilliant sculptor, far greater as a sculptor than George was 
as a painter. 

No, George knew that he could chance no risks. Perhaps 
the best thing would be to keep all women out of his studio 
till the King’s portrait had been painted. 

Yet no — he must make some exceptions. There were 
some commissions that he must complete. But apart from 
these, women must be barred. 

He had too much at stake. 


CHAPTER XXVI 


THE FIRST NIGHT 

O PENING his correspondence next day he found 
two missives. "One was the usual weekly in- 
vitation from Mrs. Harriet Miggs to purchase 
his discarded suits, false teeth, etc., for sterling 
prices. The other was a ticket for a first night. There was 
no letter with this, and he could not recognise the hand- 
writing. Consulting the paper, he found the play was 
written by an author whose portrait he had recently painted. 
The man had been amusing, although a trifle bumptious — 
“Bombastes Spurioso” the portrait had been nicknamed 
by the Cynic. A first night would be a new experience. 

The pavement outside the theatre was lined with distant 
followers of the great, anxious to recognise and name their 
heroes. George was surprised to hear himself referred to as 
Mr. Abraham Joseph, the distinguished pleader. He had 
never realised that he could be mistaken for a Jew. 

That gave him an idea. He must paint his own por- 
trait — very quiet and low in tone. 

Then came the buzz of the theatre. People evidently 
knew each other — of course the dramatic critics. What 
an ugly lot they were! And the women! Hardly a face 
worth a second glace. 

Still there were a few — actresses, no doubt. Yes, that 
was certainly an actress. Of course she played Juliet some- 
where, he had forgotten the name. There was the author 
beside him in the stage box. The latter saw George and 
leaned over to speak. 

“Didn’t expect to find you here. Very good of you to 
come. Don’t hiss me at the end or you shall never paint 
my portrait again.” 


205 


206 


HEARTS AND FACES 


After this, all through the first act, George racked his 
brain, wondering who could have invited him. 

At the first curtain his eyes lifted to a gleam of golden 
hair in a box above him on the other side. It was Ethel. 

She nodded to him, and seemed half to beckon with her 
fan. Then some one interrupted from behind. 

Ethel must have sent the ticket! 

Should he go and speak to her? She had friends with 
her just now. Perhaps later. 

Just before the curtain rose against he looked once more. 
Her eyes met his, but darkness intervened. 

The next act bored him horribly. If the author had 
not been at his elbow he would have gone out. Still he 
had better wait. 

At the interval she beckoned again, so he resolved to 
go. He must at the same time apologise for not calling. 

“I’m so glad you’ve come,” she said. “I was afraid my 
invitation would have been too late.” 

“So it was you that sent the ticket?” 

“Why, of course. Didn’t you get my letter?” 

“No, just a ticket, and I did not remember the hand- 
writing on the envelope.” 

Her face clouded, and then she smiled. 

“It must have slipped out somehow. I asked you to 
join my supper party after the theatre. You really must 
come. You never called as you promised, and you owe 
me a visit.” 

“Oh,” said George, confused, “I’m sorry. I’ve* been so 
busy somehow. It’s very kind of you to ask me. But I 
should feel rather out of it, you know. I care so little for 
plays and theatres, and your friends are ” 

“Come now, no excuses. You must not back out. Be- 
sides, there won’t be many of us. My husband is out of 
town, so that is one less. And we can talk of other things 
than plays. Just for the sake of old — that is, just to 
please me.” 

Her appeal was made so winningly. Moreover, he would 
not have to meet Wolseley Greville — she said he was out 


THE FIRST NIGHT 


207 


of town. All the same he hated the thought of entering 
the house of that scoundrel. Ethel, however, would not 
let him escape. 

“Wait for me at the entrance, and I’ll take you home 
in my brougham.” 

Brougham! The word somehow made George smile as 
he went back to his seat. How vividly it recalled that walk 
to the Langham six years ago, when she was a model and 
he a student. He had been chaffing her, hadn’t he? Ah, 
yes. “Every model,” he had said, “was once an actress, 
and every actress has a brougham.” Did she remember 
that, too? Or did she want to forget? 

Bother! He had forgotten his latch-key. There was 
time to rush home for it. But what would the author say? 
Happy thought, he could get out of the supper with this 
excuse. 

“Your latch-key !” she said, with a laugh, when ‘he made 
his plea. “Come now, that’s too stale for me. Besides, I 
could put you up if need be. Good-bye, dear,” waving to 
a friend. “What’s the proverb, ‘Love laughs at lock- 
smiths.’ Oh, dear, what am I saying?” 

The brougham held just two, but no doubt the others 
were coming on separately. She chatted brightly as they 
sped along. 

“Luxury does suit her,” thought George. “She’s charm- 
ing. Just a little bit affected.” 

In that comfortable carriage, with the windows closed 
and a pretty woman beside him, a temptation to flirt was 
natural. Casual words told him that she was willing. But 
the memory of Spellagro held him back. “No married 
flirt for me,” he said to himself. 

They stopped and a door opened. 

“Here we are,” she said. “Ugh, how cold it is! I 
hope there’s a fire. Supper ready?” This to the foot- 
man. “Show this gentleman into the drawing-room, while 
I take off my wraps. I shan’t be a minute.” 

It was quite a theatrical drawing-room, full of signed 
photographs of well-known players. At the same time not 


208 


HEARTS AND FACES 


many actors could have afforded such furniture. Henri II 
prevailed. She must have money. Good taste, too, for 
the ornaments were well placed. Two pictures were on 
the walls, one of Garrick and the other — hullo! he had 
seen that before at Eberhard Grundstein’s, the dealer in 
forged master-pieces and antiquities. Now it was entitled 
“Portrait of a Lady/’ by Gainsborough. 

Should he tell her the history of that picture? Perhaps 
she would not thank him. After all, it matched the room; 
but it made him doubt the furniture. 

What a world! 

Over the mantelpiece was a recent photograph of 
Wolseley Greville — more of a blackguard in appearance 
than ever. His head was almost bald, the left eyelid 
drooped, the cheeks were bloated, and the lips hung uncon- 
sciously in a lascivious leer. It was a face that made 
George shiver. He remembered that haunt of thieves and 
criminals that he used to frequent with Ravin. Yes, there 
was that nameless Something that hall-marked villainy. 
Never again would he enter the house of such a host. 
Reformed indeed? Sir Joshua Felshead had an angel 
face compared to this. 

Why did the other guests not make their appearance? 
The hostess, too, was slow. 

Ah, there was a ring! 

He had been there twenty minutes now. 

“This way, sir,” said a footman, opening the door. 

Assuming a calmness that he was far from feeling, George 
stepped after the servant into a cosy room where supper 
was laid. 

Ethel was fingering the flowers in a vase. 

She came fragrant with violets, and she was alone. 

“Such a nuisance!” she cried. “Just had a ’phone from 
the others saying that they could not come after all. We 
shall have to entertain each other.” 

The table was laid for two only. There had certainly 
been an interval between the ring he had heard and the 
footman’s appearance. 


THE FIRST NIGHT 


209 


Ethel was quite self-possessed. 

“You say you’ve not got your key. You would like to 
get away early. And I’m awfully hungry, aren’t you?” 

“Just as you like — I am at your disposal.” 

“Yes, to be sure.” She rang the bell. “You need not 
wait, John,” she said to the footman. 

The man bowed and left, after opening a bottle of Mumm. 

“We help ourselves here,” said Ethel, seating herself 
with a laugh at the head of the table. “I do hate servants. 
Don’t you think the Bohemian way is much better? Ser- 
vants listen to what one says, and things get about. Be- 
sides I have been longing for a quiet tete-a-tete with you. 
How strange that my invitation to you was not enclosed. 
I think I understand now, but it does not matter. Wasn’t 
the play dull? I wanted to get away earlier, but one has 
to be polite at first nights.” 

Ethel chatted on vivaciously, but her voice came blurred 
to his ears. He suddenly noticed that the Mumm was 
almost finished, though he had not touched his glass. 

“Come now. You are distrait. What a wretched ap- 
petite you have.” The voice became clearer. “I believe 
you are half asleep. It certainly was a tiresome play. 
You owe me a grudge for that ticket. Come and sit by 
the fire, while I make you some coffee — my own brew.” 

George obeyed mechanically. As she bent over, he 
noticed for the first time how low her dress was cut. This 
was not the gown she wore at the theatre. 

“I must go,” he said, starting up. 

“Oh, don’t go. It’s — it’s — besides — I say, you won’t 
be angry with me, will you? I want to ask your advice 
about something. I have a confession to make. The 
fact is,” she said under her eyelashes, “I have quarrelled 
with Wolseley. He doesn’t live here now.” 

“Quarrelled?” exclaimed George. 

“Hush!” she whispered excitedly, “the servants will 
hear.” 

“Let them hear. I don’t understand you. You asked 


210 HEARTS AND FACES 

me here to meet your friends. We are alone. What does 
it all mean?” 

“Oh, don’t be angry, George ” 

“Mr. Grange.” 

“Mr. Grange, it was only my foolishness. I did so 
want to speak to you quietly, alone — just a little chat. I 
am in such trouble. You have been so kind. It was a 
silly trick, but I could think of no other way of speaking to 
you alone. You never called, and my letters are opened, 
I am sure. These servants are paid spies. I am shadowed 
wherever I go ” 

“Shadowed ?” 

“Yes, by his detectives. He wants to divorce me now 
that he has spent all my money, and Jacobs and Jacobs, his 
solicitors, have set men on to watch me — they are probably 
outside the house now.” 

“Now!” George almost shouted. “Do you mean that 
I am to be mixed up in this ? Is my name to be dragged 
into the Courts — visiting you alone at night? What of 
my career? Don’t you see that this will ruin me in my 
profession? Here have I been slaving away night and 
day for all these years with the one ambition to be a great 
portrait painter. I have just got a commission to paint the 
King, and you in your silly, criminal folly go and ruin me. 
Oh, you — you ” 

He choked with emotion. 

“I never thought of that,” she panted. “What have I 
done?” 

He glared at her, and though his lips could frame no 
sound, she knew his repulsion. He saw in her eyes what 
had led her to lay this trap for him — trap it was, in which 
he had been fairly caught. She had not mixed with 
actresses for nothing. He had been fooled. He saw his 
name starred in the evening rags : 

ARTIST’S AMOURS— NOCTURNAL VISITS. 

He would be laughed at by men he hated, and cut by 
women he despised. Gone all hopes of that Royal por- 


THE FIRST NIGHT 


2 II 


trait. His place would be with vermin like Spellagro, at 
back doors. And all to gratify this creature’s fancy. What 
an ass he had been to think she was ever an honest woman. 
Oh, this veneer of luxury and religion! 

She made a last effort. 

“Is it too late?” she whispered, honey in her voice. 
“Even if it is, cannot we ?” 

“You filthy and abominable woman!” he cried. 

Flinging her from him, he ran down the stairs to the 
hall. Hat and coat were there, and the latch was loose. 
Stop a moment, for breath. Towering with rage, he yet 
pulled himself together, and walked as steadily as he could 
down the stone steps into the street. 

In an ague of self-loathing Ethel crouched upon the 
hearth. Two centuries had passed in those two hours. 
Oh, the contempt of him ! 

At first she had heard the passing hansoms, the occa- 
sional whistle, the policeman acknowledging “fine night.” 
Everything was so crisp and hard on that, the first frosty 
night of the year. Then she could only remember and 
spit upon herself. 

And yet she had never thought of what she was doing, 
but had drifted from one current to another. She had in 
truth asked others to this supper-party, and it was only 
during the third act, after she had seen George, that they 
told her they could not come. Then somehow she formed 
a mad plan — she could not live in this loveless way any 
longer — she must have friendship with some one. George 
Grange thought her beautiful — she knew he did — and she 
was beautiful. Why should she not try? What matter 
if Wolseley were watching her? She need not tell 

Oh, fool that she was to let it slip out! And yet how 
could she help telling him. She did not realise how much 
it meant to him, that she was ruining his career. At least 
that was in her favour — it was no calculated plan, only 
impulse. 

What an impulse ! Had it come to this that she must so 


212 


HEARTS AND FACES 


debase herself for a man, must make herself carrion in the 
hope that he might prove vulture? 

How could she have fallen so low? Had she ever been 
anything but low? 

Now this offering of herself, and the spurning of her — 
“filthy and abominable woman !” 

She would be utterly cast out both by honest folk and by 
those who only remember riches. She was utterly ruined 
now — broken with debt. That very day a valuer had 
told her that the furniture on which she had spent so much 
was worth only a few hundreds. 

“Impossible!” she cried. “It cost me thousands. It is 
all old and genuine. My husband is an amateur and bought 
it for me. He knows what is good.” 

“An amateur?” smiled the expert. “That accounts for 
it. All the easier to cheat.” 

It was only afterwards that she remembered a strange 
letter she had found from Eberhard Grundstein, enclosing 
a substantial cheque. That explained it all. Her husband 
knew the furniture and pictures were counterfeit, but had 
shared the spoils with his confederates. That was at the 
very beginning, too, when he was pretending to reform. 
Blackguard ! 

At last she realised how thoroughly she had been fooled. 
As likely as not Wolseley was boasting among his parasites 
how he had swindled her. That was just the kind of thing 
he would do. How she loathed these toadying women. 
She knew they hated her, cats after her cupboard. 

Now that she was ruined, how could she live? A model 
again? No, not in London. Those women would get to 
know. Wolseley would blackmail her. She had ruined the 
happiness of one artist. That was enough. Besides, George 
Grange would find out, would tell his artist friends, and 
hound her out of Chelsea. 

Drink! She would drown herself in that. 

She must have been drunk to-night ; he must have thought 
so, too, before she could so utterly have lost her self-control. 
He himself had not touched his glass. Well, well, since 


THE FIRST NIGHT 213 

she had gone so far she might as well finish it all. She 
could drink herself soon enough to death. 

Trying to rise, she found her limbs like lead, and sank 
back upon the rug. The uttermost red faded from the 
embers and from her face. Ashes there and here. It was 
living death. 

When at last Ethel recovered from her trance she was 
bitter cold. Her very heart was ice. 

“Mary, Mother of Jesus,” she cried in passionate suppli- 
cation, “have pity, have pity upon me.” 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


NERVES. 

G EORGE was in no mood to go home. Sleep was 
impossible. He must bathe his thoughts in the 
cool air. 

Hopelessly compromised ! Ethel’s letter had 
evidently been opened, and his name was known. The 
invitation had been abstracted, no doubt to serve as evi- 
dence against him. He must have been more than an hour 
in the house and at such an hour ! Oh, it was damning ! 

How blindly he had walked into the trap! And yet she 
had been clever, had not flung herself at his head too soon. 
She had been simply friendly, and he was deceived by her 
show of wealth. 

So her money was all spent now ! He was to be her new 
— protector! She might have done it without thinking, 
indeed most probably. Money must be her aim, and she 
was cutting the ground from beneath her own feet when she 
deprived him of his profession. She was fool as well as 
knave. 

A pretty fool too, else he would have been more wide 
awake. If she had been plain, would he have thought 
twice about her? 

Yet he had meant nothing. Not a word that he had said 
suggested love. But who had heard what he had said? 
The circumstances were all the world would know of. They 
covered him like night. 

Was it mere blackmail? Was she leagued with her hus- 
band still, and the divorce a blind? She had urged him 
to stay. Perhaps that was to give the angry husband time 
to interrupt. No, it would not be that. Yet she had led 

214 


NERVES 215 

up to something. As he retraced the evening, he could see 
she knew they would be alone. It was simply — lust. 

Morning found him still on the Embankment. A laugh 
reminded him that he was still in evening dress. He went 
home to change. 

After breakfast an idea struck him. It was risky, but 
something desperate must be done. Ten o’clock now, and 
business men would already be at work. He gave a cabman 
the address of Jacobs and Jacobs. 

His card admitted him to a waiting-room, where he was 
glad to find himself alone. Then he was summoned to an 
office, where a keen-faced, clean-shaven man rose to meet 
him. 

“Sir Joseph Jacobs?” 

“I am his partner. Sir Joseph is seen only by appoint- 
ment.” 

“The matter is urgent, connected with a case which I 
understand is in the hands of your firm — the divorce of Mr. 
Wolseley Greville.” 

“To be sure.” 

The lawyer touched a button, and a clerk appeared. 

“Let me have the Greville file.” 

“What I have to say,” continued George, “is perhaps not 
according to etiquette — I am an artist ” 

“A very clever artist,” said the lawyer. “I know and 
admire your work.” 

This was more encouraging. 

“What I have to say may tell against me, but I prefer 
to be frank. I am in a devil of a hole.” 

“And want us to pull you out? That is our profes- 
sion.” 

“Yes,” said George, “but you are against me. You, I 
understand, are acting for Mr. Greville. Now I may be 
one of the co-respondents.” 

“Ah,” said the lawyer, turning over the leaves of the file. 
“You think there are more than one? Let me see — h’m, 
ha — To be sure — I beg your pardon — Is that so? Well, in 
case you are afraid of etiquette, we lawyers have a pleasant 


2l6 


HEARTS AND FACES 


fiction for such cases. Suppose you say what you have to 
say ‘without prejudice/ as we call it.” 

George had made up his mind to be frank, etiquette or 
no etiquette. He told his whole story, explaining that mid- 
night visit. 

“H’m, ha, h’m,” said the lawyer, watching him keenly. 
“You need say no more. I understand. You have per- 
haps made no mistake in coming to us. I shall remember 
what you have told me, but I can make no promises — you 
understand. Most unfortunate affair. You can’t touch 
pitch — you know the proverb.” 

“Too well,” said George. “Too well. I must apologise 
for taking up so much of your time. Is there any fee?” 

“My dear sir, not to you. Perhaps some day you will 
let me visit your studio. Well, you must excuse me just 
now — busy day to-day, this Neville case coming on. Good 
morning.” 

George went away, full of gratitude for the lawyer’s con- 
sideration. 

This was one load off his mind, but there was still a load 
untouched. He had done his best in the circumstances, but 
what circumstances they still were ! 

The absence of sleep made his temper all day atrocious. 

He hurried back to keep an appointment with a middle- 
aged woman of Society, whose portrait he was painting, 
and who would not be put off. As usual she was half an 
hour late, and as she had only an hour to spare him from 
the gaieties that kept her alive from eleven to three next 
morning, he paced the studio in growing rage. At last 
she sailed in dressed in white silk. He was painting her 
in mauve. 

“Do be quick,” she said, plumping down in the chair pre- 
pared for her, and holding up her chin like a meat-axe. 

“Your dress, Lady Fitzjames?” he said, as quietly as he 
could. 

“Oh, yes, I have changed my mind. I wish to be done 
in white.” 

As she spoke she lifted her lorgnette and stared insolently. 


NERVES 


217 


George folded his arms. 

“If you mistake me for the door-mat,” he said, “it’s 
time you went to an oculist.” 

When she recovered her breath she sailed out, smiling 
mischief. 

“There goes an enemy,” said he to a neighbouring artist, 
who happened to come in as she went out. 

“Dangerous, I should say,” replied that worthy, “judging 
from her supply of powder. I say, old chap, can you lend 
me some rose madder?” 

A lady called in the afternoon to see the picture of her 
son, a guardsman, which George had intended for the Por- 
traitists. She was one of those of whom one feels instinc- 
tively that some one married her for her money. 

“Oh, how like him!” she gushed through her protruding 
teeth. “It is splendid. There is only one thing that I 
might suggest. You do not show the whole of the red 
band. Now dear Charles looks so handsome in his red 
band. It is so bright. But you have made part of it quite 
dark.” 

“Of course,” said George. “That is how one suggests 
the modelling of the body. If it were of the same brightness 
all round, the values and the perspective would be lost.” 

“Oh, but for my sake, Mr. Grange, for his mother, could 
you not alter it ? I should be so pleased if you did. I always 
think of it as all red.” 

How he hated these Philistines that wanted foolish 
changes ! 

“Impossible,” he snapped. 

She was not to be rebuffed. 

“Oh, no, surely not,” she said, patting him on the shoulder. 
“Now just do it. It only wants a touch.” 

George hesitated. Then took his palette and a brush. 

“Is that what you want?” he said, slinging vermilion 
round the waist. 

“Yes, yes ! lovely !” she cried. 

“There’s still one more touch,” and with another flick 
of his brush he wiped out the signature. 


218 


HEARTS AND FACES 


She paled, but was perhaps too well-bred to protest. 

“I am sorry,” she said, as she left the studio. 

“Another enemy,” he thought, and flung his palette into 
a corner. 

That night his eyes seared his fitful slumbers. He 
dreamed that on either side of him stretched endless desert, 
ridged like an ocean fixed eternally. His breast was as a 
road, over which trod the hoofs of countless horses. On 
and on swept the relentless army, his eyelashes their white- 
hot spears. Prometheus, vulture-torn and chained, had suf- 
fered no such agony. Movement was of another world, for 
he was petrified in dreams. 

A sun of citron and of orange mocked his misery. Such 
thirst suggested and unquenched was surely fed by flames. 

Then slowly, but so eagerly anticipated, crept pale shade 
towards him. Nearer, nearer, though with his head gripped 
down he could but guess its presence. Was it earth whirl- 
ing to destruction, or only the sun sinking, that lifted Some- 
thing from that fierce horizon? It was the shadow of 
that Something whose slow and torturing feet he seemed 
to hear. 

A little higher, and a little nearer. Through the glow of 
fire he could at last shape a face — and breasts — and claws. 
It was the Shadow of the Sphinx. 

The sun was now an aureole round that pitiless head. 
Surely the shadow was of death. He was ripped with chill 
more fierce than fire. 

Ah, no Sphinx! That aureole of golden hair, that face, 
that dress cut low, those arms stretched out — the shadow 
at his heart! 

He shivered and awoke, only to dream again. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


NATHANIEL REID TO THE RESCUE. 

A NOTHER terrible night. Fever fattened on such 
a maimed ambition. For eight years now his only 
atmosphere had been in art. But under this men- 
ace how could he work? He was at Wolseley 
Greville’s mercy, and he knew that face too well to hope 
for a light escape. The danger might threaten him for 
years, and he might even have to parry it with all his savings, 
certainly with his self-respect. 

Cursed woman! What had he done to Ethel that she 
should crush his life? To think himself the catspaw of 
such intrigue! Yet one woman was as bad as another. 
How often had his own studio been a secret rendezvous for 
married women, the portrait merely an excuse. Women 
were rotten, rotten to the core ! 

In his despair he thought of Reid, that true-hearted son 
of Nature who had given him his first start. For years no 
word had passed between them, but surely Reid had a kind 
remembrance of him; Mrs. Middleton’s last letter was 
emphatic on that point. No man of the world, perhaps, 
but still with such a sympathy. 

George’s letter was answered by the laconic telegram, 
“Coming.” 

Unspeakable relief! To the lonely man, a little means 
so much. Reid was not rich, yet had clearly never hesi- 
tated before the expense of the journey. 

Telling his man to admit no visitors and to prepare a 
room for Reid, George fell into an easy sleep, waking in 
the afternoon much relieved. 

George was still depressed when he went to Euston that 
219 


220 


HEARTS AND FACES 


evening, but the veracious chronicler must put this down 
to indigestion. 

The same old Reid ! A touch more of grey in the beard 
and whiskers, but that was all. Still that cheery face, 
rough and radiant with the open air. His luggage was a 
faded old umbrella. 

“How times come back!” said George as they drove in 
a hansom to his lodging. “You mind me of the old sea- 
smell that we used to get on Balgownie links. Still pegging 
away ?” 

“Ay, sonny, still peggin’.” 

“Not married yet?” 

“No, no, sonny. It’s only the young fools that play about 
wi’ women.” 

George laughed a trifle ruefully. 

“Glad to hear ye laugh, sonny,” said Reid, patting him 
on the knee. “It shows that we are not at the bottom of 
the sea yet. Man, is there any place here in London where 
you can get a drop of Scotch, with somethin’ to it? I’m 
just famishin’. There’s no food like real food, and I’m 
fair sick of sandwiches.” 

“We’re just home,” said George. 

“What!” exclaimed Reid, when the latter handed cabby 
half-a-crown. “Man, I can see ye’re clean daft. We could 
have got here in a bus for threepence.” 

“Maybe,” said George slyly, “but then what should we 
have done about the luggage? I didn’t know you were 
coming to stay so long.” 

“Man, I thought you would be rich and fat now, so that 
you would have some spare pyjamas to fit me.” 

Then, when they came to supper, Reid traversed the food 
at ninety miles an hour, while George toyed with his. 

“Ay,” said the older man, quaffing nobly, “this is the 
real old Sandy. Drown your sorrows in drink, sonny, not 
more than three glasses, with hot water and lemon and 
sugar to taste. And now for a pipe. Fegs, man! Put 
away thon cigarette. Chewin’s a bad habit. Soock, man, 
soock, like a new-born babe.” 


NATHANIEL REID TO THE RESCUE 221 


So they went on in the old familiar way, coarse perhaps, 
just as the earth is coarse, and the sun and the sea. It did 
George a world of good. 

“And now, sonny, what's the trouble? Ye're hand- 
writing’s like a hen’s scrawl; sign of genius, of course, 
but I’m no chicken, and my old eyes couldn’t make it out 
exactly.” 

George poked the fire, and over the prescription that 
Reid had recommended for sorrows told the whole story. 

“Ay, man, that’s a gey pickle. We’ll hae to sleep on 
it. I’ll let ye off the early mornin’ sketch just for once, and 
when we’ve had a look at your pictures we’ll see what can 
be done. Take my advice and never try a big jump when 
ye’re tired. Breakfast seven o’clock sharp.” 

At seven next morning Reid was still fast asleep. George 
chuckled, but put the clock back and got, out his canvases. 
Several of these were lying there as they had come back 
from exhibitions, still unpacked. The owners were out of 
town and he had not troubled to touch them. Now, how- 
ever, he would give Reid an idea of the progress he had 
made. 

“There’s one thing I pride myself on,” said Reid, as he 
shambled in to breakfast. “I’m an early riser. I never 
feel myself if I don’t have a bite by seven. Man, ye get 
yer papers right early here !” he added, seeing George with 
his fashionable journal. “What’s the news?” 

“Oh, I just get it for the social intelligence,” said George. 
“Ah, this will interest you : ‘Mr. Nathaniel Reid, A.R.S.A., 
has arrived in London.’ ” 

“What!” shouted Reid, rushing at the paper. “Oh 
man, ye’re at yer old tricks. Guid sakes, who put that 
in?” 

“Some little bird,” said George, smiling at his little joke. 
It was a guinea well spent. 

After breakfast they went round to examine the pic- 
tures, Reid grunting and humphing like one of Kipling’s 
camels. Then he went to the chesterfield while George put 
back the canvases. 


222 


HEARTS AND FACES 


Reid broke the silence. 

“There’s one thing, sonny, that makes me proud of you.” 

“Yes?” said George, very self-conscious. 

“And that is that ye’ve not altogether lost yer Scotch 
accent.” 

George had a return of indigestion. 

“I’m no jokin’,” continued Reid. “It gives me great 
hopes of ye and I’ll tell ye for why. It’s like this, sonny. 
I see yon classical johnnies goin’ up from King’s College in 
Aberdeen to Oxford and cornin’ back wi’ a drawl fit to turn 
yer nose up. But it’s no like that wi’ you.” 

In a humbler spirit George sat down by his old friend. 

“Now, to my mind,” Reid went on, “ye’ve made mighty 
progress; I wouldn’t hae thought it possible. But I’m 
just fearin’ that ye’re on the wrong lines, like. It’s the 
Scotch accent that gives me hopes. I watched ye showin’ 
me yer pictures, an’ shootin’ out yer cuffs like a wee pea- 
cock, but then I heard yer vowels, an’ I knew ye were still 
a man. Thank God for it! Now, I’ve watched this Eng- 
lish an’ American notion of paintin’, terrible clever it is, 
wi’ rapid snatchin’ at effects. These chaps think they can 
get a complete effect in one day’s paintin’, or thereabouts. 
Man, they should have been born three hundred years ago, 
and given that tip to Titian. Think o’ the grandest portrait 
painter the world has ever seen, and think of the laborious 
way he thought of and put on his paint — the magnificent 
underpaintin’ and the wrastlin’ an’ care an’ love on the 
top of it. Remember that it was him, that it was Titian, 
who said that an improvisation is not the finest poetry. 
Now the great characteristic of Scottish paintin’ is that 
one thing, quality. Quality, man! Burn the word in 
yer breeches! If there’s any school of paintin’ worth fol- 
lowin’ beside the school of nature, it’s the school of the 
Venetians. These English and American chaps have got 
no guts. D’ye follow?” 

“Fire ahead.” 

“Colour upon colour, and the use of broken colour in one 
tone — these are the things that make a picture glow with 


NATHANIEL REID TO THE RESCUE 223 

permanent beauty. Now Titian could do that in a por- 
trait because he could command his own time and his own 
terms. In these days, a johnny who wants his portrait 
painted canna be bothered. That’s the vera reason I am 
glad ye have got into this pickle. My advice is, chuck 
portraits altogether, at least for a while. Yer present 
trouble may be the best for ye in the end. For, mind this, 
sonny,” he added as George was interrupting, “ye’ve got 
the makin’s of a grand painter in ye. Ye’ve faced the 
drudgery of drawin’. Now ye must face the drudgery of 
paint. Ye must analyse more, in order that ye may 
create.” 

“Well, I suppose you are right,” said George huskily. 
“But tell me more about this method. How am I to set 
about it?” 

“A hundred years ago there was a quack who sold the 
fashionable artists the so-called secret of Titian, at ten 
guineas a head. This I will impart to ye for love, having 
borrowed twopence to buy it myself off’n a second-hand 
bookstall.” 

So saying, he produced from his pocket two tattered 
leaves from an old number of the Fortnigtly — apparently 
an excerpt from an article on Millais. In this was printed 
a translation from an Italian called Boschini, which the old 
Scot proceeded to read with deliberate emphasis. 

“ ‘Titian,’ ” he read, “ ‘smothered his canvases with a 
mass of colour that made, so to speak, a bed or base for 
the touches which he painted over it. And I also have seen 
him, with resolute strokes and brushes full of colour, filling 
the same brush sometimes with light red to serve as a half- 
tint, sometimes with white, rose, black or yellow — with his 
amount of knowledge, in four dashes of the brush, giving the 
promise of a rare figure. After having made these precious 
foundations for his pictures, he turned the canvases to the 
wall and there he left them some months without looking 
at them. When he wished to paint on them again he 
first examined them with a very critical observation, as if 
they were his worst enemies, to see what he could find in 


224 


HEARTS AND FACES 


them, and if he found anything which was discordant with 
the delicacy of the intention of his art, as a beneficent 
surgeon operates on the infirm, he applied himself to reduce 
any swelling or superabundance of flesh, or to putting 
right an arm if the form of the bony structure was not 
properly adjusted, or putting in its place a foot that had 
taken a discordant posture, and so on, without pity for 
its pains. 

“ ‘Working in this way he constructed the figure and 
reduced it to the most perfect symmetry that could represent 
the beauty of nature and of art. Having done this, he 
worked from time to time on them till he covered his 
figures as it were with live flesh, perfecting with such won- 
derful touch that at last only the breath seemed wanting. 
He never did a figure at once, and used to say that any 
one who improvised could never make verses that were 
profound or really well put together. The essence of the 
finish, of the last touches, he put on from time to time with 
rubs of his fingers, in the high lights approximating them, 
blending one tint with another, and again with a touch of 
his finger putting in a dark stroke in some angle to enforce 
it, or a touch of rose, like a drop of blood that seems to give 
life to the surface, like touches creeping on gradually, 
and so perfecting his animated figures. And Palma at- 
tested the fact that in finishing he painted more with his 
fingers than with the brush/ ” 

“There’s something in that,” said George. “But how am 
I to work like that? It is impossible to find time for 
that way with portraits, as you yourself admit. They are 
hard enough to get as it is.” 

“Money, money again !” said Reid. “How many a clever 
artist blinds himself with this love for money, forsaking 
the narrow way for the broad path of portraits. Chuck 
them, man, chuck them.” 

“It wasn’t money I was thinking of,” said George, colour- 
ing. “It was my ambition.” 

Then for the first time he wholly revealed the thought 
that had urged him on so eagerly. It was not easy to 


NATHANIEL REID TO THE RESCUE 225 

confess, for it betrayed conceit, and Reid had hammered 
that. 

“What must I do to be saved?” added George, as Reid 
stayed silent. 

“Cut yerself adrift, sonny, cut yerself adrift. Ye’ve got 
yon money of yer own still, haven’t ye?” 

“Yes, and I’ve saved a thousand pounds.” 

“A thousand pounds too much, except that ye’ll need a 
mighty lot to put away on materials. Ye must leave London. 
Why not go to Paris? The grand thing about Paris is 
that ye’re in an atmosphere of art — the good men there 
work like hell. Give yerself at least two years to experiment, 
and then try what ye can do. And keep clear of women 
if ye can. If ye can’t, make the best of them. Fit them 
into yer work, don’t let the work fit them. Ay, but I can 
trust ye there. Now, we’ve done our lessons. Come on 
round to the National Gallery.” 

George rushed down the stairs three steps at a time. 

“Canny, man, canny!” said Reid, panting behind, but 
he was very happy. He was proud of his pupil’s progress, 
and glad that he had been able to help him. 

George understood what Christian must have felt at the 
top of the Hill of Difficulty. The future no longer loomed 
terrible before him. It was mysterious still, but it grew 
lighter, lighter. 

Reid went back to Scotland next day. He had sown the 
seed. Time must do the rest. 


CHAPTER XXIX 


PARIS 

T HE sun had never seemed to shine so brightly 
as on that beautiful October morning. Down 
the narrow streets of the Latin Quarter the 
omnibus with its three white sturdy horses had 
swung in and out of the bluest and most translucent shadows 
that George had ever seen. As for the Parisians themselves, 
he was amazed that such colour could be found in Western 
costume. The workmen with their spacious trousers nar- 
rowing down to the ankle, the little bare-headed women, 
so dainty and so chic, the students with their gorgeous 
ties, all placarded themselves more vividly because they 
were so new, so different from the sombre London which 
he had been so glad to leave. Then when they had swept 
over the bridge and rattled through the Louvre into the 
broad open Avenue de l’Opera, he let loose his excitement 
and leaned so dangerously over the rail that a nervous neigh- 
bour pulled him back. 

At the Opera George alighted and turned back the way 
he had come to view this wonderful world all over again. 
Now it was the passers-by, now the shop- windows that 
claimed his notice. The countryman fresh to London walks 
about open-mouthed at the war of traffic and the whirl of 
humanity, but what rustic could have so much to wonder at 
as this artist fresh to the latest Babylon? 

Over the bridge again and through the narrow streets 
and then — ah, the Luxembourg, with the wonderful bronzes 
in the open air beside! It must have been somewhere 
here that Ravin lived during the terrible orgies of the 
Commune. Ravin had told him of the days of child- 

226 


PARIS 


227 


hood, when he used to waken to the shriek and roar of 
mitrailleuses . First the cries of the Communists led in 
their fifties before that pitiless wall. Then the sharp word 
of command and the hail of sound, sweeping so many souls 
into eternity. Ravin’s own mother had almost perished 
in that maelstrom. She had harboured priests whom the 
Communists would have killed, and her compassion had 
almost cost her own life. Then, when the tables were 
turned, and Gallifet had drunk the blood of Paris, she had 
been called as witness to identify two of those who had 
threatened her in her own house. So gentle a spirit re- 
volted against such retribution, and at the risk of death 
she had denied all knowledge of her former enemies. 
George’s blood boiled as he thought of all that had been 
done and suffered in the name of Freedom. And yet the 
Communists had little else to look for. Had not they, too, 
marched through the streets in their brief, reckless triumph, 
shooting at sight any man who wore the sign of Govern- 
ment, the regulation boot? 

The words of a song heard with Ravin at an Anarchist 
meeting in Soho came into his mind. They parodied an 
old Moody and Sankey hymn, which he himself had sung 
in Aberdeen as a boy in the Band of Hope: 

“There are ninety and nine that work and die 
In want and hunger and cold, 

And one that lives in luxury 
In the lap of the silken fold, 

And ninety and nine in their hovels bare, 

And one in a palace of riches rare. 

With the sweat of their brows the desert blooms 
And the forest before them falls. 

Their labour has builded humble homes, 

And cities with lofty halls, 

And the one owns cities and houses and lands, 

And the ninety and nine have empty hands. 

But the night so dreary and dark and long 
At last shall the morning bring, 


228 


HEARTS AND FACES 


And over the land the victors’ song 
Of the ninety and nine shall ring, 

And echo afar from zone to zone, 

Rejoice, for Labour shall have its own !” 

The song had sung itself into his heart. He looked about 
him now and saw the artisans of Paris with the earth in 
their cheek-bones. These were the men who built up the 
riches that prodigals squandered ; the children of the Revo- 
lution, a Revolution that would surely come again. 

In his reverie he had sauntered back to the Seine. There 
he was brought back to actual life by the rush of a steam- 
boat gay with colour. In a moment he was thralled by the 
Enchanted City. The struggle of the labourer, the arro- 
gance of the rich, had passed from his mind. All that he 
could see or feel was beauty. 

In a few days he had settled down to work, following 
the new lines that Reid had suggested, with infinite pa- 
tience studying the problems of translucent colour. Yet 
colour alone without a subject was not sufficient for his 
imagination. He turned to his old love, poetry, and in his 
well-thumbed Keats found all the subjects that he wanted. 

His rooms were near the Luxembourg, over a carpenter’s 
shop, and at six each morning the sawing and the hammer- 
ing awakened him. Up he sprang in splendid spirits to 
his two-sou breakfast, a cup of coffee and a croissant. At 
twelve he sauntered out to the cremerie close by, where an 
egg and cheese were an Olympian banquet. 

His afternoons he spent either at the Louvre or at the 
Luxembourg among the moderns, passing on at half-past 
four to the short-pose class at Colarossi’s. 

Evening had another tale to tell. 

Under the lamplights Paris is indeed the city of rumoured 
pleasure. By day she is the busy, thrifty populace that 
opens the shop at eight and does not close again till seven. 
By night she has earned her right to have a good time, and 
a right good time she has — sometimes with the family, 
sometimes without — on the boulevards, in the music halls, 
the theatres, the circus, the restaurants — talking, gesticu- 


PARIS 


229 

lating, laughing, enjoying — bubbling over with life just as 
the wine which is spumante. 

An inexhaustible study for such as George. The little 
notebook was never out of his hand. In Paris the artist 
is part of the picture. 

For the modest sum of fifty centimes a day, Colarossi’s 
studio, or atelier, or whatever you like to call it, provided 
the casual or strenuous artist in Paris with two hours of 
excellent practice in rapid drawing from the life. The 
model gave four short poses, just long enough for the 
accomplished to complete a record and for the beginner to 
despair. The older men came here as often as the younger 
ones, for the artist in Paris, however great, is still a student 
and likes to keep in touch with the coming generation. 

For George the school provided an introduction to the 
Latin Quarter and to the models that he required. The 
studio was old enough to have attracted types from every- 
where — Germans, Swedes, Russians, Americans, as well as 
French. A sprinkling of women came as a surprise to 
George, considering the undraped model. They were mostly 
German, wearing aesthetic sacques, which he found they 
called Reform clothes. 

Coming there every day he naturally made acquaintances. 

‘'Which do you think is the better, Rembrandt or Velaz- 
quez ?” said an American beside him one day. 

“Never thought of comparing them,” said George, a 
little smiling. “Each in his own way is superlative.” 

“You’ve hit it. But, say, don’t you think Titian just 
bully?” 

“Bully?” 

“Yes, bully — fine. Guess you’re an Englishman from 
the cut of your pants. Can’t say I like Englishmen — they 
give us the glad hand and the marble heart. Say, but ain’t 
this a hell of a burg. Have you seen the sights yet? Gee- 
whiz !” 

The pose ended. George offered his neighbour a ciga- 
rette. 

“Not for me, old man, never smoke nor drink.” Then, 


230 


HEARTS AND 1 FACES 


looking at George’s sketch, “By golly! you can draw some. 
Julian’s or Beaux Arts? What, London! Tell me an- 
other. Say, any chance for a portrait painter over there? 
Know any big bugs who would want something choice? 
Guess I know who could deliver the goods.” 

“So you’re a portrait painter?” 

“Not exactly yet, but it’s on the horizon. Been here 
three years now and got to go back home next week. 
Thought I might do a few things on the way to show the 
old folks at home.” 

“Portraits ?” 

“You bet your life. Got plenty landscapes and noods — 
whatever will my old dad say to them noods? — and copies, 
gee, ain’t I just it on Old Masters. Know that head by 
Van Dyck in the Louvre? I painted a sketch of it in oils 
in two hours. I tell you, when I took it home and looked 
at it, it was elegant — under a glass frame it would be worth 
a deal of money.” 

Of the women who came to the studio there was one who 
seemed born to be sketched. She had a pink-and-white, 
“I am such a simple little thing” sort of a face — pouting 
lips and rather retrousse nose, blue eyes, golden hair, olive 
green dress and hat to match. It was an “arty” sort of 
a hat, and a still more “arty” sort of a dress. 

At that moment she drew the American’s attention by 
lighting a cigarette. 

“Holy Moses !” he said, “isn’t that a peach ! I guess 
she’s out for blood. Tell me, old man, what kind of shirt- 
waist is that she’s wearing?” 

“Why don’t you ask her yourself?” said George. 

“Haven’t the nerve. Say, is that the English fashion?” 

“No, German, I think. They call them djibbas.” 

“Jibbers ! Oh, my sacred aunt !” 

He fairly doubled up with mirth, and all the rest of that 
afternoon burst at odd moments into suppressed explosions. 

Cameron was his name — quite a good sort, but very 
naive — the son of emigrants who had landed in America 
with ten dollars or so, and had “made good” somewhere 


PARIS 


231 


back in Iowa. Finding that George was not an Englishman 
but a Scot, Cameron fraternised, and persuaded him to 
come to the evening class also. Several men came there 
from Julian’s, and the model was always good. 

It seemed strange sometimes to George that he should be 
back at school, just as he was six years ago. But Paris is 
different from London, and the visitors at Colarossi’s were 
artists whose judgments were worth having. 

“Pas mal they would say when they came to George’s 
drawing, and so pass on. There were not many whom they 
let off easily. 

Of the students themselves, an international crowd, the 
Americans appealed to him most. There was something 
virile about these men from the West which the European 
lacked. They were hope and self-confidence incarnate — 
sons of fathers who had pioneered maybe in Iowa or the 
Dakotas, or had fought their way to their dollars through 
the press of cities. Tense and high-strung, all of them, 
though some had the outward physique of cart-horses, 
they were so full of nerves that they seemed to think almost 
with their skins, as well as with their brains. 

He had not heard much of American art, except of course 
of Sargent, but surely there must be a great art growing up 
there across the water, if these were the young men. Some 
day he must go across to America himself, and see the 
country that produced this eager spirit. 

Their accent jarred at first, but ultimately fascinated. 
Instead of talking round the corner, their terse vigorous 
slang said what they meant to say straight out. So too 
their drawing was expressive and direct. They came to 
France for schooling, but France had just as much to learn 
from them as it could teach. 

A delightful incident happened one day in a week when 
Valerien Pourgot came to criticise. The model was a little 
girl, very dainty, and an outrageous flirt. 

The Professor came at eight o’clock, just as the second 
hour commenced. 

Standing up on the platform, with her chin resting 


232 


HEARTS AND FACES 


simply on her hands, the little model played coquette with 
the great man as no model had ever dared before. Go 
where he would, those eyes were on him, smiling, entreat- 
ing, defying. Colarossi’s old atelier never held so many 
clever students as at this time, but every drawing seemed 
crude beside this sparkle and this life. 

“C’est I’heure!” 

It was the rest. 

In a moment she was off the platform playing bo-peep 
in and out of the easels with the jolly big-bearded students, 
and always with one eye on the Professor. George saw 
that Pourgot too was fascinated by this fire-fly. And 
when she suddenly darted at him, flinging a kiss in his face, 
he positively blushed. 

Some one tried to catch hold of her, but freedom came 
so easily. In a moment a hurricane of bread crumbs was 
flung at her would-be captor. 

So far from being frightened, she grew more daring. 
Before any one could stop her she had suddenly turned 
round and put her arms round Pourgot’s neck. A shout 
of laughter filled the room, and old Angelo, the everlasting 
factotum, of whom the inscription was written, Tempus 
fugit , sed Angelo manet, cautiously pushed his dirty grey 
beard through the door to see what was the matter. 

However, the Professor took it in excellent part. Put- 
ting his hand gently round the little nude figure, he laid his 
lips tenderly on her forehead and kissed her. 

“Gentlemen,” he said, and a tear trickled down his cheek, 
“nothing in all the world is so pure and beautiful as 
youth.” 

This was on a Tuesday and Claire, the little model, was 
posing every evening throughout the week. As a rule the 
last evening of the week was an idle one, but Claire was too 
great an attraction to be missed, and when at last Saturday 
came round every one had a kiss for her, and a flower or 
bon-bons. 

At ten o'clock every evening a patient figure had waited 
for her at the door. Mother Labori came without fail for 


PARIS 


233 


little Claire and every one saw that the child was in good 
hands. The square, honest face, pricked with smallpox, 
showed only tenderness and sympathy. 

“Professor Pourgot wishes to see you to-morrow,” said 
old Angelo to her on the last evening. “I think he wants 
your little Claire to pose for him at his studio.” 

Mother Labori glowed at the good news. Claire’s for- 
tune was made if Valerien Pourgot chose her for his pic- 
tures. No more posing in draughty schools for the child, 
but good, regular employment. She hugged the child as 
she wrapped her up against the night air. 

In Paris, bachelor does not usually spell ascetic, but so it 
was with Valerien Pourgot. At the age of ten he used to be 
found in the Louvre copying drawings by the great Floren- 
tines. Since then he had been allowed to devote his whole 
time and soul to art. Tireless energy had given him an 
almost perfect knowledge of the figure and not till he began 
to paint did he find that something was wanting — some 
spark of warmth that should teach him the colour that 
makes beautiful the world. He had turned to the scientific 
painters of the light and was even classed with the pointel- 
lists by the scribes who could not understand his method 
and desired some term of abuse. Science, however, could 
only take him so far, and at heart Pourgot knew that he 
was just second-rate. The discovery might have disheart- 
ened a weaker man, but Pourgot persevered and, be- 
fore many years, his application and knowledge of 
technique concealed his faults from all except the very few. 
From triumph to triumph he passed, till at last, great 
triumph of all, the State purchased one of his pictures for 
the Luxembourg. Still there were some who knew better. 
One of these was old Carolus Duran, who constantly urged 
his friend to go into the world and let Spring rule his life 
for a time. 

Pourgot only smiled. Knowing as he did his weakness, 
he was still too self-satisfied to take the advice of another 
artist, especially on matters of conduct. His thin spare 
figure suffered no change to worldly comfort or indulgence. 


234 


HEARTS AND FACES 


The shoulders narrowed a little, and a little stooped. 
Wicked fingers had caricatured him as a point of interro- 
gation, fingering thin shreds of beard before a well-fed 
Venus. 

George liked him and he, on his part, seemed to like 
George’s work. He always gave a friendly nod, and one 
day an appreciative pat on the back, whispering so that 
the others should not have reason to be jealous : 

“Visit me some day at my studio.” 

“Thank you,” said George, and resolved to go, but not 
yet for a while. He wished first to finish some of the can- 
vases he had commenced. Then he would have something 
he could show. 


CHAPTER XXX 


PORTRAIT OF THE ARTIST 

P ORTRAITURE was now forsworn, and yet the fas- 
cination of the human face was not so easily 
evaded. A compromise was found in the idea 
which had struck George as he entered the theatre 
on that memorable night — a portrait of himself. As he 
roughed in the structure of the head, seen in a mirror, he 
wondered that he had never done this before. 

It was a lost opportunity. Portraiture had been his 
field, but he had overlooked the key to the gate he would 
unlock. He might have learned so much from his own 
looking-glass, knowing from constant self-analysis the feel- 
ings that must have found expression in those furrows. 

The reason was not far to seek. With success grew small 
luxurious habits. His nervousness had increased, and the 
irritable skin had driven him to a barber, when in his 
sterner days he had shaved himself. Trifling as the cause 
might seem, it yet deprived him of many a chance for in- 
timate reflection. He was a dandy, it is true, but his 
smartness came from instinct more than study. A photo- 
graph might have visualised the truth, but he had not faced 
the camera. So he might start in that London theatre 
entrance to find himself mistaken for a Jew. 

How hard his face had grown! The nostrils might be 
sculptured, so firm was their dilation. His cheeks no 
longer flowed with the line he loved to mould in others. 
From the wide cheekbones they dropped sheer to the chin, 
a base itself that was hard and square in spite of its dimple. 
The line between the cheek and lip was already deeply cut, 
though he was only twenty-five — the left side more deeply 
than the right. This surely meant that sneering was habit- 

235 


HEARTS AND FACES 


236 

ual — another revelation. The lips were fuller than he looked 
for, sensual he would have called them in another. 

The lips so full and the dimpled chin recalled the por- 
trait of Lord Byron in Albanian dress, painted by Thomas 
Phillips. The ears were as disconcerting as the lips. They 
might so easily be elongated for a satyr’s head. Some critics 
indexed artists by the type of ear they painted. As if char- 
acter did not shape cartilage! The old masters were truer 
to the model than the critics knew. It was the critics 
whose ears were all alike. Asses ! 

Yes, that sneer accounted for that furrow. 

In the eyes he saw the artist. The ridge of eyebrows 
heavily overhung, and heavily the sockets shrunk beneath. 
The upper lids showed red, dropping over half the eyeball. 
That trick of seeing dimly so as to mass the light and shade 
had grown a habit. And how he must have worked ! So 
dark was the skin beneath the lower lids that it seemed at 
times pure violet. 

He must take more exercise, or live more in the country. 
That pallor and that hue meant sluggish circulation. Stu- 
dio life in London was left well behind. 

The note of dark-brown hair added its melancholy tone. 
Frankly a face that some might think forbidding. How 
was it that Ethel had chosen him for her smiles? 

No wonder he had made few friends. And yet perhaps 
that aspect was created by his solitary life. Things were 
so complex, acting and reacting. 

How curious his hands were! It was not till now he 
noticed that the third finger of each hand drooped a little, 
hidden by the others. People said that finger had most 
intimate connexion with the heart. The nails at least were 
straight and healthy. 

He would paint the truth. No need to change a single 
note — all was in harmony, quiet and low in tone. No 
jewels to disturb the light, for he hated womanly adorn- 
ment. 

He was glad now that the lips were full. That rich red 
note made all the colour live. It was a man that he was 


PORTRAIT OF THE ARTIST 


237 


painting, not mere features. The eyes were hardest to 
suggest — that shadow was so mysterious. Who had ever 
yet painted amethyst? 

The portrait might be easier if he began on canvas primed 
with grey, but why should he shirk its difficulties? He 
must create out of complete analysis, not fumble after 
truth. 

He realised the lower jawbone now. Its firmness loomed 
through shadow. 

Pacing in slow progression, the portrait so obsessed him 
that he could not escape its memory. Even in the tide of 
crowds, when self is pushed into a thousand eddies, he saw 
before him, sombre and yet alluring, that solitary face. 

Paris filled him with astonishment. Here indeed was 
anarchy — life sandwiched between impulse and caprice, in- 
terludes of wildest dissipation after an avalanche of work. 
There were artists, better artists than himself, with eyes so 
sensitive to beauty, and hands so skilful, and brains so tire- 
less. But how momentary the loves on which they squan- 
dered priceless talent! 

Jean Defrain was the closest friend he made that winter. 
Jean showed him Paris the mysterious, the absurd. How 
pleasantly the ball passed when Jean introduced the demoi- 
selles so anxious to find a rich English patron, as 
George with clothes like his must be ! What fun to study 
Jean’s amazement when the introductions led to no 
“affair !” 

“A sponging little devil,” George used to think, “but I 
suppose he is no worse than others.” 

This contact with such easy morals taught him how 
closely passion is akin to sin. At times of great temptation 
he could have killed as well as kissed. It was this other 
moral regimen that held him back from too light a love. 
Once let passion loose, and what might he not become? 
And what were not these already, these women who 
allured ? 

Insensibly all barricades crumbled before such amorous 
air. George’s finer notions changed. 


238 


HEARTS AND FACES 


He knew the difference in himself, but cynically drifted. 
In that portrait of himself he made the lips a little fuller, 
a little more red. They were still in tone. 

With yet more biting self-analysis he put himself in 
fancy with his present character through his past career. 
He would have worked as hard, but would he have lived as 
clean? Would his restraint have been so adamantine in 
that carriage-drive with Ethel had not ambition stood be- 
tween them? That ambition had proved so utterly empty, 
and she was very beautiful. Then, afterwards, in that 
room, alone? 

Perhaps it was as well that Paris had come to him so late. 
Now the lines were set, and if love should come, it must 
be as an interlude, rather a harmony not changing the im- 
petus of work. 


CHAPTER XXXI 


RETURN TO NATURE 

T HE bitterest discovery of exile was that London 
never missed him. Not a word from any of 
his brother artists came to George in Paris. 
How petty a success that he should drop out 
so unnoticed ! 

The letters he had sent telling of his departure had re- 
mained unanswered. He could not understand why one 
artist, whom he had himself once tided over a financial 
crisis, ignored a small commission he had asked him to 
fulfil. Of course! His resignation from the Portraitists 
was known in Chelsea. His influence was gone — but not 
his skill ! His lips tightened as in the old days when he sat 
up all night copying those drawings of Andrea. 

Damn them ! He would spite them yet ! 

Still, friendship was not limited by letters. It was years 
since he had heard from Reid, but nobly that dear old 
fellow had answered to his cry. 

No, his solitude was not yet absolute — thank Reid for 
that. 

He had written to the general stating that domestic 
reasons compelled him to leave London for a while for 
Paris, and that he must therefore give up the opportunity 
of painting the Royal portrait. For a month or so there 
was no answer. Then, at last, somewhere about Christ- 
mas, the reply: — 

“My dear Grange, 

“An excellent dinner at the club has just reminded me 
of that great night on which you entertained our portrait 
committee in your studio. Why the deuce did you run 

239 


240 


HEARTS AND FACES 


away? Was it because of that she-devil, Lady Fitz- 
James? My God, what tales she told of you — she fairly 
terrified the Lord High Everything Else — said you swore 
at your sitters, and God knows what besides. I suppose it 
was the same old cat who spread that scandal that you had 
run away with another man’s wife, and were being hunted 
round the continent by the outraged husband — some said 
she was an actress, others that she was a peer’s daughter 
whom you had fascinated at your studio. My dear chap, 

I have defended you, but what could I say? ‘Gone for 
domestic reasons to Paris’ — just the confirmation they were 
looking for. 

“I fear you must consider the portrait definitely ‘off.’ 

“By God, I wish I were as young as you are. No one 
would run away with me. 

“Yours, 

“R. Harrington.” 

He got no credit for his virtue then. 

Why should he not do what other men were doing? 

Yet no! Rather let him forget the past in work. 

So winter passed. 

Then spring called up the flowers in the gardens of the 
Luxembourg, yes, and in George’s heart as well. A winter 
of unremitting work had been left behind, and now he 
laved his tired eyes in the young green foliage and in the 
aconites, anemones and daffodils, which brought the chil- 
dren and the nursemaids and the proud young mothers 
again into the public gardens. 

Yet parks were still walled in by streets, and in a little 
while he felt he must get out into a more edgeless atmos- 
phere. So to his memory came the letters he had read 
from Millet to Sensier. At the Louvre he sighed before the 
aerial modelling of Rousseau’s Coucher de Soleil. Near it 
was a picture of spring by Millet, with a path in it which 
seemed to beckon, beckon. He thought of Diaz, haunted 
by the Mare aux Fees. 

So one day he took the train to Fontainebleau. 

The apple was in blossom. 

At Fontainebleau he spent the summer, from a cottage 


RETURN TO NATURE 


241 


in the Rue de l’Arbre Sec exploring quite as much as paint- 
ing, tramping through the forest and over to Barbizon and 
Chailli and Grez and Marlotte. Such painting as he did 
that summer was mostly in the park of the Chateau. For 
there a little dreaming and a little twilight were all he 
needed for his settings of Endymion. 

Next year he would come again and paint from dawn 
to dusk. But this summer he would just drench himself 
in all the beauty of the forest. 

Such people as he met condemned him as morose. As 
the summer heightened, the colonies of artists in the forest 
centres grew more populous, and he might easily have 
found some transient friendships. But for once he was in 
the mood to be alone. He had begun to see that art had a 
deeper claim upon him than he had yet allowed. How 
little room for the soul had there been in the life he led in 
London, “cadging” — yes, that was the word for it — for 
Society portraits. Here, under that vast sky, in this simple 
elemental life of forest and of peasant and of plain, 
another spirit seemed to grow on him. If thunder-clouds 
rolled up and storms swept down upon the forest, he would 
go out on to some rocky height and let the rain beat on his 
face, thrilling at every flash of lightning. Or, when the 
blaze of July filled the air with hum of insects, one found 
him in the heather, bathing and half burning in the sun- 
shine. 

George understood now that technique was not the chief 
thing in great work. Sincerity was soul of all, sincerity and 
the passion to express oneself. Millet, the peasant, created 
a revolution in art as great as that which flung the nobles 
out of France. Millet fought the fight not with palette 
tricks, but with most passionate sincerity. 

If George read anything except his beloved Keats, it was 
some letter of Jean Frangois — sentences like these, thrilling 
just as those lightning flashes : 

“Voyez ces choses qui remuent la-bas dans une ombre; 
elles rampent et marchent — ce sont les genies de la plaine. 


242 


HEARTS AND FACES 


Ce ne sont pourtant que de pauvres gens. C’est une femme 
toute courbee sans doute, qui rapporte sa charge d’herbe, 
c’est une autre qui se traine epuisee sous son fagot de bois. 
De loin, elles sont superbes, elles balancent leurs epaules 
sous la fatigue, le crepuscule en devore les formes; c’est 
beau, c’est grand comme un mystere.” 

Life assumed a new perspective. Paris indeed already 
had done much to assuage the bitterness of broken hopes. 
Every face, every street, every voice, every moment had 
its new distractions. Our petty tempers are so much the 
creatures of environment. 

The old ambition was a dead thing now. It meant so 
much a year ago to think he was commissioned for a Royal 
portrait. To-day his only ardour was to be in sympathy 
with nature. What were tailored kings compared to the 
majesty of these great wind-swept spaces. 

And Ethel, poor unfortunate! Had she gone under? 
If ever he had thought of her with rancour, no longer now. 


CHAPTER XXXII 


CLAIRE 


M AESTRO, Maestro !” 

“Claire, Claire !” 

“Come and see me in my new hat.” 

“Come and show me your new hat.” 

“I’m too busy putting it on.” 

“Pm too busy painting.” 

“Very well. Good-bye for ever!” 

“Coming, coming — just half a minute.” 

Valerien Pourgot was Maestro, but little Claire, his model, 
was the real master, and Claire knew it. If Pourgot had 
not lost his heart, his head and his hands a thousand times 
over to this ten year old, he would have thought her a 
tyrant or at least a nuisance. He had more or less adopted 
her, taking Mother Labori as his housekeeper and getting 
an old out-of-work called Blanchon to be her tutor. In 
the mornings he would paint Claire. In the afternoons he 
was dancing attendance — at the shops, at the races, at the 
circus, in fact all over Paris. Her tastes were fortunately 
simple, otherwise Pourgot’s purse would soon have been 
empty. Claire collected picture post cards, and these often 
ran away with twenty francs in an afternoon, but he never 
protested, thinking that she was in a way cultivating her 
artistic sense, and thus binding her tastes to his. 

She was passionately fond of horses and dragged him 
once a week to the circus — a willing victim, for he too liked 
the colour and movement of the ring. He made continual 
sketches and taught Claire to do the same. The child was 
very clever, and Pourgot often thought that instinct had 
given her clearer vision than all his prodigies of work. 

243 


244 


HEARTS AND FACES' 


He was Maestro to her ; and, though she led him a dog's 
life, she loved the dog. After all, he was so happy in her 
company that conscience never pricked him. Three years 
ago he would have died of shame if he had not worked all 
day. Now he was beginning to find out that he was man 
as well as artist. 

“Where are we going to-day?" said Pourgot, buttoning 
his boots. 

“I shan’t tell you till you say my hat is the most beautiful 
thing in the world." 

“I shall never say that." 

“Oh, Maestro!" 

“Because there is nothing so beautiful to me as Claire 
herself." 

“Aha ! Aha ! Aha ! — oh, Maestro !" 

“Yes?" 

“Are devils ugly?" 

“Of course." 

“Even the little ones ?" 

“Yes." 

“Monsieur Blanchon called me a little devil to-day at 
my grammar lesson." 

“Naughty again?" 

“I only threw my book at his head." 

“But, Claire, you must not do that." 

“He is no artist. He is afraid of dogs ; he speaks like a 
dictionary; he wears his spectacles all crooked; he doesn’t 
cut his nails; he didn’t notice my new dress; he sneers at 
picture post cards — and he called me a little devil. I hate 
him. I won’t learn grammar. I won’t spell. I won’t write 
like a lady. I won’t behave properly. I won’t! I won’t! 
I won’t!" 

“Poor old Blanchon, he hasn’t got any one like little 
Claire to look after him, as I have," said Pourgot. 

Now she was all remorse. 

“I’ll tell you what, Maestro. I’ll write to tell him I’m 
sorry, and we’ll buy him a box of chocolates for to- 
morrow." 


CLAIRE 


245 


“Splendid! But can you write a letter all by your- 
self ?” 

“Yes,” said Claire with two dimples, “when I’m 
good.” 

So the letter was written, and at the first bon-bon shop 
they made their purchase. Long experience had taught 
Claire which kind of box contained the largest quantity for 
the smallest price. 

Then on to the circus. 

There was a new clown, called Balaam. Claire shrieked 
with laughter. 

“I’d like to live with him all my life,” she said. 

“And leave me ?” 

“No, no, he’d be my husband, and you would come and 
live with us and paint me laughing.” 

“But he’s married already and has seven children.” 

“Oh, Maestro, do you know him ?” 

“Yes, he is a model when he is out of work.” 

“Out of work?” Her eyes were big round O’s. “Is he 
ever out of work ? Does he laugh then ? Can a model ever 
be funny? Does he pose well? Have you seen his wife 
and seven children? Do ” 

“One at a time, please,” said Pourgot, putting his fingers 
in his ears. “I’ll take you behind the scenes and introduce 
you to him after the performance is over.” 

“Oh, how lovely!” And all through the performance 
she kept saying, “Will it be done soon?” 

At last Balaam had done with his fooling and ran out 
holding on to the tail of his Ass. Pourgot tipped an at- 
tendant to take his card behind, and in a minute they were 
summoned. 

They went through a sort of stable, Claire in an ecstasy 
at being close to real circus horses. Ahead of them they 
heard the sound of a whip cracking and a voice shouting 
and swearing. 

“What is it?” she said. 

“Nothing,” replied the attendant. “Only Balaam thrash- 
ing his donkey.” 


246 


HEARTS AND FACES 


“You vicious son-of-the-gutter, take that, curse you! 
and that! You would kick me, would you?” And a 
whip slashed the poor animal’s sides. The clown was in 
a brutal rage. 

“Maestro,” cried Claire. “How cruel!” 

Then slipping from him, she caught hold of the clown’s 
coat, pulling him away and calling : 

“Brute, brute! Oh, the poor donkey!” 

“Get back, you little devil,” said the clown roughly, 
“or I’ll whip you too.” 

Pourgot leaped upon him. 

“Schneider,” he said, calling him by his real name, “this 
is a matter for the police.” 

The model recognised the painter and cringed for pardon. 

“I meant no harm,” he said. “It was only that obstinate 
devil of a donkey. I beg the little lady’s pardon. I thought 
she was one of ourselves.” 

By this time a crowd had gathered round. The others 
were delighted to see the new clown taken down a peg. 

Pourgot’s anger vanished as rapidly as it had come. 

“Come away,” he said to Claire, ignoring the frightened 
Schneider. “This is no place for you.” 

So they hurried out, Claire sobbing as she remembered 
Balaam’s ass. 

On the way home she hardly spoke. How was it possible 
that the clown who made every one laugh so much could be 
so cruel? 

Pourgot heard her sighing and put his hand on her 
shoulder. 

“Would you like to marry Balaam now ?” 

“Never! Never! I will always stay with you.” 

It was a child that spoke and yet what happiness her 
answer gave him. She was becoming a part of his existence. 
She must be model, or in the room, or within call. She was 
so fond of him, too. She would tyrannise over him some- 
times, furious if he was slow to obey her — but what else 
could one expect of such a child? 

“Maestro ! A new series ! Look !” 


CLAIRE 


247 


In a moment all thought of the clown and donkey had 
vanished. Claire was dashing after new picture post cards. 

“Aren't they lovely !” she cried. “Look at that violet and 
orange. I must have them, I must. Quick, quick, or some 
one else will have them." 

Before he left the shop, Maestro had seen the last of 
thirty francs, all for the collection. No, for more. Had 
not happiness come back into the young face? Why should 
she be sad? 

After the post cards, coffee and iced cakes at the pasty- 
cook's and then some photos, and then a yard of apple-green 
ribbon, and then a Japanese kimono, and then — 

“No more money," said Pourgot. “We must go home." 

“On the top of a bus, then," said Claire. 

On the top of a bus they went, scattering the streets with 
their white horses. 

Claire was too tired for dinner. She just told Pourgot 
to get some bouillon > and tucked herself to bed. By the 
time the bouillon was ready, Ten-year-old was fast asleep, 
so fast that she never felt the kiss pressed so tenderly on her 
forehead. 

“Will she ever understand?" he said to himself, as he 
sat by her cot, watching her slow and rhythmic breathing. 
“Yes, she has so good a heart." 

As he rose to leave the room his eye fell on the box of 
chocolates they had bought for Blanchon. It had fallen 
on the floor. 

“So good a heart," he repeated with a smile. 

As he lifted the box he started. It certainly was the 
same box. 

He opened it. It was empty. 

The little minx had eaten them all herself. 

Pourgot smiled more ruefully. 

“After all,” he thought, “she is only a child." 


CHAPTER XXXIII 


MOTHS 

I T was Claire who opened the studio door to him in the 
Rue d’Assas when George at last made up his mind 
to call on Valerien Pourgot. He remembered the 
little model — who could forget her? Whether she 
remembered him or not, she smiled at him — flirt ! 

George had come back from Fontainebleau to Paris 
rather early. Colarossi’s was almost empty. Yet the ab- 
sence of the crowd had this advantage that when Pourgot 
made his visit, he did not pass by so quickly, indeed renewed 
the invitation. 

“You have been painting during the summer, n’est-ce pas? 
Bring me some of your sketches. If you paint as well as 
you draw, they should be interesting. ,, 

And so he went. 

Who of us is proof against such flattery? 

Pourgot had a studio big enough to paint a battle-picture. 
“I like a large room to work in,” he explained. “It has 
more light. I bathe my eyes in the light.” 

Claire, the little model, seemed to have kept him busy. 
The walls were gay with studies of her dainty figure. 

Pourgot was a consummate draughtsman, but his colour ? 
— the colour of a man who draws things, does not see them 
first in colour. 

“Ah, you have brought me some of your paintings. Let 
me unroll them for you. Ah! So! Ver-y interesting, but 
beautiful — so true — so direct. A little inexperience in 
selection, but that will come. You are English ? No, Scotch, 
I thought so — your work is so serious. You have the 
sad heart, you Scotch, you see through a mist of tears. 

248 


MOTHS 


249 


These are from the Forest of Fontainebleau, and the Park 
of the Chateau — my native region. Beautiful, but how sad, 
and you are so young too. Why do you not surround your- 
self with bright things — paint with more gaiety ?” 

He flung a gesture at the walls, all alive with Claire. 

“Let old age bring its tears with it — all too soon. You 
are young, mon cher. Paint with more youth.” 

George smiled at his enthusiasm. 

“I would if I could,” he said, “but I am still only a 
beginner and a stranger here. It is easier for me to paint 
these long lingering twilights so full of dew than to paint 
your brilliant express-speed effects of sunlight, as you have 
them here in France. Cher maitre ” — he knew the title 
pleased the Frenchman — “give me more time.” 

Morose and ascetic might be his face, sad might be his 
pictures; but, as the flame of Paris warmed him, George’s 
heart too burned to know the intimate joys of life. He 
was young, he was a man, the world was full of siren faces 
and alluring mysteries. Certain cafes on the boulevards, 
perhaps more brightly lit than others, beckoned him. 

He sat irresolute, amid the fluttering of moths, so fair, 
so frail. 

Why should he not do as other men were doing? 

What held him back most of all was fear — dread of that 
shadow of disease lurking behind the light. He remembered 
a young American, full of vigour and high spirits, plunging 
at once into this passionate gay life — a little later white in 
the face and irritable at the chaffing of his comrades, then 
dead with his own hand. 

He had been “unlucky,” said the comrades. But was this 
merely isolated luck, or what was the meaning of the 
army of physicians who lived upon the cure of strange 
diseases ? 

There was too much of the unknown about these pleas- 
ures for this canny Scot. Into what den might he not be 
lured? How could he bargain about such a thing as love? 
What might be his ultimate regret? The step once taken 
could never be retraced. 


250 


HEARTS AND FACES 


He was a foreigner. If, now, one of these light-o’-loves 
were English it might be easier. 

If any of these women spoke to him — and they were not 
shy — he would pretend to take no notice. If they perse- 
vered, he left the cafe, for another of the same. They might 
be moths fluttering round the lamp. Very nearly so was he. 

Once he did come across a London girl. It was in a 
low-class cabaret on the quais, where he had walked in out 
of curiosity. 

The performers came down into the audience, handing 
round the hat and asking the men for drinks. 

George was at the back of the hall when this girl, a 
dancer, came up to him. The waiter hovered round. 

“Beer?” 

George nodded. 

“English, ain’t you?” 

He nodded again. 

“Get me out of here,” she whispered, “there’s a friend. 
They’ve stolen my money. I want my fare back to Lon- 
don.” Then as the waiter bustled up, “Buy me a cigar- 
ette.” 

There was entreaty in her face. She had, no doubt, to 
get business for the house. 

George nodded again, and as the waiter went away to 
fetch the order: 

“What’s wrong?” he said. 

“Give me the money, quick.” She coughed every time 
she spoke. She had peroxide hair, and a skin rotten with 
powder. It must have been a long time back since she 
was first betrayed. 

They charged him five francs for the cigarettes. George 
demurred, but the waiter insisted. 

“Pay it and clear out,” whispered the girl, as she bent 
over her glass. “Better that than be knifed.” 

The hall was only half full. It was quite possible. George 
paid, and the waiter no longer stood between him and the 
door. 

“What sort of a place is this?” he asked nervously. 


MOTHS 


251 


“White slavers,” she replied. “Can’t you help me out?” 

He was a green, soft-hearted fool, and he knew she 
knew it. 

“I’ve just got forty francs.” 

“That will do. Put them in the cigarette box, and give 
me the box.” 

Her turn came on again, and as she left him he slipped out. 

Whew ! 

It was a week before he had regained his nerve. 

After that he kept to the more public places. 

Yes, as Cameron had said, this was a “hell of a burg.” 

But George was young, and was a man. Nature was in- 
sistent. These bright lights beckoned to him, and he sat, still 
irresolute, amid the fluttering of moths, so fair, so frail. 

It was difficult to breathe in Paris after the country air. 

George’s studio was always a marvel to Jean Defrain, 
Parisian paint-slinger. Here there was an ante-room with 
a comfortable and well-lined bed, not a shelf on the wall to 
which one climbed by a ladder. Here too the walls were 
papered not with startling nudes but with Braun’s photo- 
graphs of Old Masters, framed in dark oak, and giving the 
grey studio an almost sombre note. Here too there was a 
place for everything. One did not have to put away the 
frying pan in the same drawer as the under-linen. 

“You English are all hypocrites, oh, shocking!” said Jean 
one evening. 

“I meet a young miss,” he continued, swinging his cane, 
“that is to say very nearly young, with a face for Mater 
Dolorosa, so heavenly, and I carry my heart in my new 
boots for two days, till I find she dances the cancan higher 
than the Sacre-Coeur. Oh, my dear friend, you know 
that pretty Russian whose friendship I made by knocking 
over her easel when she was copying at the Louvre? Well, 
this English Miss is prettier even than she — stunning! 
Come with me and make her acquaintance. She would 
make such a good friend for you. We have been asleep, 
we two. She has been in Paris nearly a year, and she — 
oh, shocking!” 


252 


HEARTS AND FACES 


“Probably an American,” said George. “You Frenchmen 
never know the difference.” 

“No, I tell you. English of the true blue. Do you 
think I have been in your foggy London for two year and 
not discover that your English miss talks with her beautiful 
lips and not with her beautiful nose? Besides, I have 
asked her, and she has told me, turning up her beautiful 
eyes like the St. Catherine in your National Gallery. Her 
name is Ettele.” 

“Ettele ? That’s not an English name. Oh, I see, Ethel — 
Ethel what?” 

“But my dear friend, be careful. You upset the ink.” 

“Tell me her name. Quick, or I’ll wring your neck.” 

“Ettele — Ettele — I have forgotten, I can only remember 
that rose her face, and her lily throat — ah, yes, Ettele Swal- 
low, that’s it. She comes to the Cafe Harcourt to-night, 
.and after that we go to the Bullier. You will come too?” 

“Yes,” said George, “I shall come.” 

It seemed ages now since he had left London, and that 
episode was almost buried. Not a word had come from 
Jacobs & Jacobs, the solicitors, and as he saw no English 
paper, he never knew how the divorce case had turned out. 
The decree must have gone against her, and she had come to 
Paris — and — 

Well, poor fool! And so too was he a fool to go near 
her, but what did anything matter now? If this were her 
tragedy, he must see the last act. That might be some con- 
solation for the misery she had once caused him. 

She had played with fire, and been badly burnt. Grimly 
he remembered the epitaph that Henry Ward Beecher pro- 
posed to write on the tomb of the atheist Robert Ingersoll, 
an epitaph of two words — “Robert Burns.” Well, he was 
not going to set himself up as her judge. She was what 
God had made her. 

“Wait a moment,” he said, turning to his sketch-books. 

He never destroyed a drawing, believing that the earliest 
might still prove useful, if only to show his progress. As 
he looked for his Langham drawing of Ethel, he found the 


MOTHS 


253 

Servite Manual which she had given him when he met her 
outside that Catholic Church in the Fulham Road. 

“Hurry up!” said Jean. “She said nine o’clock.” 

“Ready,” replied George, slipping the Manual into his 
pocket. 

The restaurant was full, but they could not see her any- 
where. 

“I’ll stay here at this table,” said George. “You look 
round for her.” 

Jean left his wine unwillingly. 

George was curiously calm. He knew what he was going 
to do, and did not care what happened. 

At the next table was a little old man who was spinning 
out his pleasure. It was a delight to listen to the chuckle 
of the old fellow as each dish was brought before him. Out 
came his tongue, and he cocked his head to one side. Over 
the succulent pork his eyebrows lifted, as if to say, “Ah, 
little pig, you were once a happy little pig, and now you 
are going to make me happy. It is the law of change and 
the change is for the better.” Then he brushed his white 
moustache well away from his mouth, and fell to with 
enthusiasm. At the end he sighed with satisfaction, and 
twirled his thumbs for the next course. 

Presently Jean returned. 

Ethel, he said, would be with them in a minute. 

“She is a Rubens to-night,” said Jean ecstatically. 

There she was. 

Across the room their eyes had met. 

She was sucked towards him. 

How beautiful she still was — “fair as the first that fell 
of womankind” — and yet his soul recoiled from her. 

“You !” she cried. “I did not know ” 

“I wanted to give you something,” said George in a voice 
that he hardly recognised. “Something that you once lent 
me. 

He had risen as she came up. He handed her the Manual. 

Ethel sank into a seat at their table. 

“Of course,” she said huskily. “Of course !” 


254 


HEARTS AND FACES 


Jean turned from one to the other in surprise. 

“Ah,” said he, “Mater Dolorosa again! Au revoir, my 
friends. I came here for some fun.” 

Off he went, gesticulating and muttering to himself, 
“Hypocrites, hypocrites !” 

“You know what I am now,” she said when they were 
alone. “Why do you remind me of this ?” 

“I wanted to make certain.” 

“Make certain of what? That I am — you know 
what ?” 

“Yes,” said George brutally. “You were always rotten. 
First you married for money, then you were merely luxu- 
rious, then it was lust.” 

“Don’t!” she cried. “You are more cruel than Wol- 
seley.” 

“You ruined my career.” 

“Leave me, or take me out of this. I shall scream.” 

She was pale as death. 

“Come,” he said. 

Outside, he gripped her by the wrist. It was raining, 
but neither of them noticed. Rain washed bare the empty 
streets. Round the corner dripped the cloak of a gendarme. 
A little plump face pressed its nose against the window 
opposite, wondering where all the water came from. One 
draggled cur snarled at the world because it was washed 
so clean. 

At the Seine George and Ethel found themselves again. 

“That is the place for you,” said George, jerking at the 
rush of waters. 

“No, no! Not yet! I am afraid! It is all because I 
have been so lonely.” 

“Lonely!” 

Just a little word, but it was enough. 

He understood in a flash. 

“Why,” he said, catching his breath, “so am I too.” 

She was shivering and crying. 

“Come,” he said, leaning on the parapet, “let’s talk it 
over.” 


MOTHS 


255 


She could not look at him, but she knew their souls were 
face to face. She could not speak at first, but on the parapet 
traced with her finger a hundred times the figure 8. 

“So you have been lonely,” he said, to help her. “I never 
thought of that. I think I can understand now.” 

“Ah,” she sighed, her heart rushing out, “if people only 
knew! But so many have happy homes, so how can they 
believe? I was always so miserable, and wanted to be 
free. I thought there was a chance, but Wolseley made a 
slave of me, worse than I was before. But still I could not 
be alone, alone with myself — I was afraid — and I did any- 
thing for Wolseley, lest he should leave me. And you, yes, 
you — I had never met any one like you, who said things 
out straight — and then I messed it all, and you hated me 
more than ever. So I lost you too. Wolseley had spent 
everything, and was trying to get rid of me.” 

“Go on,” he said. 

“There is nothing more. I have always been alone. But 
I did not want to ruin any more lives than my own. It 
was through not thinking that I spoilt yours. When I un- 
derstood, it made me reckless, and then I went to the bad. 
Oh, it is too late now !” 

She began to sob again. 

“Come now,” said George, putting his hand on her arm. 

Strange sympathy! Here was one to whom he might 
have been attuned, had not they missed each other. She 
had sinned from an empty heart, like his. Sin was akin to 
passion, passion to sin. At last, at last he understood. She 
was what God had made her. 

“I wonder if ” he said, after a silence. 

“Yes? If what?” 

“If it is too late.” 

He hardly knew why he said it, but she was thrilled by 
sudden hope. In that storm of emotions, fear, hate, despair 
and love were now in the sough, now high on crest. 

She looked up in his face. 

“Tell me about the divorce case,” he said. “I never 
heard how it ended.” 


256 


HEARTS AND FACES 


“It never ended,” letting her face fall again. “Of 
course there were two sides to the question, and my solici- 
tors found out about him too. That’s where all the money 
had gone to. He called it his theatre. They called it his 
seraglio. Then for some reason or other Jacobs & Jacobs, 
his solicitors, threw up the case. I was ruined by that time, 
with law expenses and everything. I had no money left, 
and no real friends. So I came to Paris. I thought I 
could lose myself here. I had not a cent, but — well, I was 
still pretty.” 

His face was in shadow. 

“Of course I am still his legal wife, but what a mockery ! 
And you — you have never married ?” 

In the ghastly schooling of the last year, she had learned 
the tricks of seduction, and one might have said that that 
was why she looked up in his face as she touched him. 
Perhaps. But there may have been something more. The 
drowning do not calculate on attitudes when they clutch 
at straws. 

“No,” he said, almost with a sigh. 

“You mean you are really lonely too.” 

His lips tightened. She was afraid. Had she gone too far ? 

“What are you thinking of ?” she said. 

“I was thinking,” he answered very slowly, “that it is 
raining.” 

Then he laughed. 

After all he was not utterly offended. She laughed too. 
“So it is,” she said. “I must go home.” 

“I will go with you. Where do you live?” 

“Rue Napoleon.” 

They walked along in silence, till they reached the door. 
There they hesitated. Then George spoke. 

“I am an artist still,” he said. “Would you care to be a 
model again?” 

“It’s my only chance.” 

“Then come to me to-morrow morning. Here is my ad- 
dress. Seven o’clock sharp.” 


CHAPTER XXXIV 


RAPPROCHEMENT 

A T first they both felt awkward in each other’s pres- 
ence. Then the simple fact of work smoothed 
down the angles. How exquisite she was in figure ! 
George knew that if he' searched through Paris 
he could not find a lovelier. That made it easier to forget 
the ugly past. 

She liked to talk, and he was not averse to listening. 
Instinctively they kept as far as possible off the story of 
her life. At the same time she could not quite obliterate 
all record of herself — what woman could? She neverthe- 
less took care to avoid all mention of her httsband. 

George was anxious for a safe and common subject of 
conversation, and thought at last he found it in Ethel’s 
passion for romance. At the end of the morning, she asked 
if she might see his pictures — he had just been sketching 
her. The canvases against the wall were turned for her 
inspection, some almost finished, others cruder. 

“Why!” she said. “They’re nearly all from Keats. Isn’t 
that Hyperion and that St. Agnes Eve?” 

“Yes. Do you know him so well as that?” 

“Do I know him? Why, all by heart. Let’s see, that’s 
where Hyperion, 

Tike to a diver in the pearly seas, 

Forward he stooped over the airy shore 
And plunged all noiseless into the deep night.’ 

I thought you were an art-for-art’s-sake kind of painter. I 
didn’t know you took a literary theme.” 

George was astonished. It took him some time to grasp 
257 


258 


HEARTS AND FACES 


that the world had not stood still while he made progress. 
But what did she know about these things? Who had 
taught her? Ah, perhaps he had better not inquire. 

“I didn’t know of your taste for literature,” he said. 

“It wasn’t always so,” she said, flushing. “It was after- 
wards that I found how lovely poetry could be. Oh, I know 
when I was a girl I read most frightful trash. But after- 
wards when I had money I took elocution lessons, and it 
was then I began to understand.” 

“Did you ever act ?” 

“No, my master said I wasn’t good enough. I could 
recite poetry, not act it — I had no sense of drama or passion, 
he said. I think he was prejudiced, being a professional 
and knowing I had money. If I had got a part, I should 
have cut out some girl who needed it more. He was a 
good sort, old Danby.” 

“You must recite to me.” 

“Oh, I have forgotten such a lot.” 

“Do you remember this ?” he said, pointing to a romantic 
landscape. “That’s Keats too.” 

“Is it? Oh yes, the Ode to Psyche: 

\ . . Two fair creatures, couched side by side 
In deepest grass, beneath the whispering roof 
Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran 
A brooklet, scarce espied: 

‘Mid hushed, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed. 

Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian, 

They lay calm breathing on the budded grass ; 

Their arms embraced, and their pinions too ; 

Their lips touched not, but had not bade adieu.’ 

Oh I forget the rest.” 

“You remember more than most people would. That 
ode is not so popular as the others.” 

“Yes, but it has got my favourite lines — you know the 
end, 

‘And there shall be for thee all soft delight 
That shadowy thought can win, 


RAPPROCHEMENT 


259 


A bright torch, and a casement ope at night. 

To let the warm Love in !’ ” 

In spite of himself he was thrilled by her voice — she 
put such fire into the words. The ground was getting 
dangerous. 

“This is a real landscape,” he said. “I spent last summer 
in the Forest of Fontainebleau, and happened on a place 
like this. I chose the place for itself, and it is was only 
when I was half-way through that I came across this ode. 
There was an old chap, Reid, an artist, who used to tell me 
to read Keats in the open air. So I did. The place might 
have been made for this description.” 

“How curious!” 

“I think a literary theme is justified,” he went on, “if 
the interest is really in the colour, not in the reference to 
the words. A painter has to paint under some emotion, 
if he is fit for anything. Some can get an inspiration from 
a chance arrangement of light in a particular place at a 
particular time. I can do that too, as in the case of this 
landscape — at least at first, but somehow I am touched most 
easily by poetry. That gets to the heart, and brings the 
colour to my eyes.” 

“Perhaps it’s the same reason too why I love Keats,” 
she said. “I used once to care only for love stories of 
dukes and earls. Then when I grew older, I saw the silli- 
ness of it all. But I couldn’t live without romance — 
St. Agnes Eve and the Pot of Basil , why, I used to revel 
in them.” 

“Do you know Rossetti?” said George. 

“Some of him. But he’s harder. But I understand 
Jenny.” 

Dangerous ground again. 

He shifted the conversation back to pictures. Yet he 
had been glad to find that she was not merely animal. It 
would be easier to get on with her now. 

As he replaced the pictures, she noticed that one was 
still unturned. 


26 o 


HEARTS AND FACES 


“What is that one?” she asked. “May I see?” 

“If you like. It’s only a portrait of myself.” 

As he placed it on the easel, 

“Oh!” she cried, and “Oh!” 

“Well, what do you think of it?” 

“Are you really so hard as that? Why, that makes me 
think of granite — you do come from Aberdeen, don’t you? 
It frightens me.” 

“But is it like?” 

“Yes,” she said. “It is like.” 

“I used to be considered good at portraits,” he said. 

She looked at him timorously to see if he meant this as 
blame to her — she who had lost him the chance of painting 
the King’s portrait — but there was no bitterness on his face. 
So he no longer grudged the loss of his ambition now! 
That was one barrier the less between them. 

“I go to the Louvre this afternoon,” he said, taking the 
canvas down. “Would you like to come?” 

“I should love to!” 

As he fell into step with her, he suddenly realized how 
great must be the change in himself, that he could do such 
a thing as this. Here was the woman whom he had so 
utterly loathed, the cast-off wife of a man who would not 
stop at murder, who had by her folly or wickedness tossed 
him from the position he had won after so many years’ hard 
work, now walking with him as a friend. What would Reid 
say? “Keep clear of women, if ye can,” the words rang 
in his ears. “If ye can’t, make the best of them. Fit them 
into yer work, don’t let the work fit them.” That after 
all was what he was doing, fitting her to his work. And 
yet it was a risky game. He had singed his wings once 
already at that candle. 

A fierce suspicion came over him. Perhaps she had 
come to Paris in the hope of snaring him again. 

“Why did you come here at all,” he asked sharply. 

“Why does one do anything?” she answered. “Instinct, 
I suppose, and then I knew I could do what I wanted here. 
But most of all — surely you remember the story I told 


RAPPROCHEMENT 


261 


you of my lost baby, well, she is here. It may seem strange 
to you to think that I with all the life I have been leading 
can still think of her. But men don’t understand what a 
woman is who has been a mother. They think of love 
simply as a brief pleasure, but to a woman it may mean 
months of waiting, of fear and of pain till a little new life 
is born. She may have hated the thought of its coming — 
but when it does come, her very soul seems to be in it. She 
holds the mite to her breast, and till it is weaned they are 
still almost part of one and the same life. It was hard, hard 
poverty and a cruel husband that parted me from my baby 
— God knows how I ever came to do it — so when the worst 
came to the worst and I knew I must go under, I still 
wished to see the little one again, if only for a moment. 

“No!” she continued, divining his thought, “it was not 
you that I was following though I am glad I met you — it 
was not you.” 

“As for your husband?” 

“If I met him again, I think I could kill him,” she cried 
passionately. 

Then, overwhelming every petty thought of self, came the 
vision of the Victory of Samothrace, magnificently set at 
the head of the Louvre staircase. 

“My God !” he said, catching her by the arm and pointing 
to the statue. “Isn’t it glorious ?” 


CHAPTER XXXV 


RECOGNITION 


I SHOULD like to go to the Salon/’ said Ethel, a few 
days after she had become George’s model. “I want 
to see that picture of yours even though it is cellar’d, 
as you call it.” 

George had had good fortune with the first picture he 
had done on the new lines, even though it was badly hung. 
He had sold it, much to his surprise, for the Salon as a rule 
brings more glory than profit. A Jew had bought it for 
1,000 francs. It was not a great picture, though full of 
atmosphere and charm and colour — just a little shepherd 
boy, his soul bursting out on a penny whistle. 

George had not seen Jean Defrain since the evening of 
the reconciliation, and was more and more nervous about 
going in public with Ethel, especially to places where he 
might meet the inquisitive. Still he was in a mood to 
humour her, even at the cost of personal inconvenience. 
So he put aside his brushes and they went. 

They met no acquaintances, naturally enough, as the 
doors were just opened and they were the first arrivals. 
Ethel’s tastes and his own proved much akin. It may be 
that she was quick enough to see what he wanted her to 
like. Anyhow, they were two doves in spring. She did not 
say that any picture was “pretty.” It was always “beauti- 
ful” or “in tone” or “harmonious.” 

George knew the work of so many artists that he hardly 
needed a catalogue. 

They went round quietly, discussing his favourites. In 
time they came to one by Valerien Pourgot. 

“Isn’t it stunning?” 

The picture showed the figure of a little girl, nude, laugh- 
262 


RECOGNITION 263 

ing at her reflection in a mirror — perfectly drawn, charming 
in colour. 

Ethel said nothing, and when George looked at her he 
saw that she was pale. 

“What’s the matter?” 

“Nothing — let’s go on.” 

But as they moved away she stopped and held his arm. 

“Let me see that picture again,” she said. “I have a 
foreboding. Do you remember the photograph I sent you 
once from Paris? Don’t you see the likeness to this little 
girl? She, my baby, would just have been about this age. 
This is the image of what I once was. Is this Valerien 
Pourgot really a good artist ?” 

“A perfect draughtsman,” said George. “I remember the 
model too. She posed one week at Colarossi’s, a delightful 
little thing. She was called Claire.” 

“Claire! That was the name I gave my baby. And 
the woman knew.” 

George remembered Mother Labori and described her. 

“It is she!” 

Ethel was quite overcome with emotion and could not 
speak coherently till they had got back to the studio. 

“Don’t think I am only acting a part,” she said when 
she had become more collected. “I know I’ve been a bad 
lot, worse perhaps than you think. But I have had my 
punishment in this separation from my baby, knowing that 
I could never have another. It’s all too horrible now. 
Poor little thing! Is this Monsieur Pourgot a good man? 
A model in Paris runs such risks — it’s far worse than Lon- 
don. Oh, that awful text in the Bible runs in my head, 
‘The sins of the father are visited on the children.’ Can 
you find out something about her? When I gave her up 
I had to swear that I would never come near the child again. 
But it would be different if you found out for me. I just 
want to know if she is happy.” 

George promised to do his best. After a few days he 
found that Claire had been practically adopted by Pourgot 
and that Mother Labori was acting as his housekeeper. 


264 


HEARTS AND FACES 


Next day, Mother Labori came to Pourgot with a letter 
in her hand. It was in a woman’s handwriting, blurred 
as if with tears. 

“Why have you done this thing?” it ran. “Why did I 
trust you? Why did you not write to me, if you wanted 
money? I would have sent her anything to save her from 
this life. I saw the picture in the Salon, and I knew it was 
my little Claire, so sweet, so pure, so innocent — as yet. For 
the love of Mary, keep her pure. I hear that Monsieur 
Pourgot is a good man. Don’t let him let her go. Keep her 
from temptation.” 

“Explain,” said Pourgot sharply. 

“I had almost begun to think her my own child, mon- 
sieur. I loved her so — and she is so fond of me.” 

“Then Claire is not your own child ?” 

“I adopted her as a little baby and I have nourished her 
as my own.” 

“And this letter? It is not signed.” 

“It must be from her mother. But she swore when I 
consented to take little Claire that she would never try to 
see the child again. I would not take her unless.” 

“Claire does not know ?” 

“She believes me to be her mother,” said the woman, 
weeping. “I have been a good mother to her, poor though 
I am — and I would not send to the lady for money. I am 
sure I know how it is earned. She is a bad woman.” 

“Yes,” said Pourgot thoughtfully. “You did right. Yet 
this mother seems still to love our little Claire.” 

“She deserted Claire. I have not deserted her.” 

“This letter is stained with tears.” 

“Claire’s life has been bright with happiness. Perhaps 
that too might have been stained with tears had she lived 
with such a mother.” 

“You are right,” said Pourgot. “We must keep the child 
to ourselves. Never let that mother break her oath. Claire 
is yours — yours — ours.” 


CHAPTER XXXVI 


PASSION-FLOWERS 

E THEL was a flower that could adapt itself to any 
soil. The coarseness that her life must have 
taught her never betrayed itself, simply because 
she had an intuition that George would show her 
into the street if she were anything but clean. It was the 
imitative instinct. She was no longer the Ethel whom he 
had trampled on because of her importunity. Then she 
had felt confidence in herself and was conscious of her 
attractions. Now her forwardness was in full rout. Her 
spirit crouched, half in fear of his reproach, half in remorse. 
So on the first day she covered the traces of her disrep- 
utable year ; then the renewed delight in poetry and romance, 
and the refining memory of Claire made the recoil more 
natural still. 

She was meshed in nerves. A ring at the door shook 
her as if it were the Last Trump. 

Had he been the model and she the artist, she would 
have drawn his portrait. But he, being artist, did not draw 
hers. She baffled him too much, so of her face he made 
only an incident in her figure. 

“What is to be the business footing?” he had asked her. 
“I can live on thirty francs a week,” she said. 

So it was arranged that she should sit to him every morn- 
ing for that sum, and that she could spend the rest of 
the day as she pleased, while he continued in his old routine. 
He offered to make it more, but she was then in a passion 
for self-denial, and it was not till later that she regretted 
her impetuosity. 

“Remember,” he said, “if ever you are worried by your 
old acquaintances, say you are with me.” 

265 


2 66 


HF.ARTS AND FACES 


That was generous of him, but she sometimes wished his 
generosity took more material shape in an increase of allow- 
ance. 

Their life in a way recalled the weeks he had spent in the 
company of Miss Marriott before she went out to rejoin 
Ravin in America. In that case there had been the other 
bond of music. Now there was the fetter intellectual. Edu- 
cation had entered late into Ethel’s life, but when it did 
come it found a royal hospitality. During her years of 
plenty, she could buy what books she coveted, and though 
poverty is no bar to a delight in poetry and the ready purse 
is too often responsive only to a rare edition, Ethel had used 
hers to buy unlimited companionship in books. 

This companionship George had for some time almost 
forsworn. But until he was seventeen it had been the main- 
spring of his life. How sweet and cunning a key was this 
that wound it up again. The sicknesses that most defy 
the doctor are those which are suppressed, and the suppres- 
sion from which George had always suffered was an intel- 
lectual snobbery. When Ravin’s wife had written him an 
ill-spelt letter, she became a mere acquaintance. When 
Ethel rhymed with Richard Crashaw and flowered with Sir 
Philip Sidney she entered the inner comradeship. Danger, 
George, breakers ahead! 

George indeed gradually realized that he was in the posi- 
tion of the little boy who is credited with the apples he 
had never stolen. If stolen apples in such a case are sweet, 
how much sweeter are the unstolen ! Why not merit the 
sneers of Jean Defrain, now that they were so inevitable? 
To protest was but to earn greater ridicule. He would 
be called simpleton as well as hypocrite. Not that he really 
cared, but he shrank before the formidable battery of Jean’s 
tongue. He wished now that he had never let the French- 
man grow so intimate. George heard him sniggering at 
Colarossi’s and knew that he himself must be the joke. 
That Spaniard in the corner was drawing his caricature. 

None the less he determined to let Ethel have her chance. 
He knew that she was beautiful, but he was far from loving 


PASSION-FLOWERS 


267 

her. Now that he saw her every day, he noticed things 
that jarred. She wore earrings, and sometimes a faint tinge 
of powder, little intimate things that he had not the right 
or the courage to speak about. Yet he came to like her 
in a way. She never tried to be anything but a model. 
It was her only chance, she had said, and so far she was 
trying to take it. He had been touched, too, by her evident 
love for the lost child. 

Ethel herself was curiously nervous. She still posed 
well, but at the end of her sittings she was sometimes faint, 
or burst into hysterical tears. This was due partly to the 
wild life she had been leading. The physical strain that 
the artist exacted was no longer so easy to endure. Partly 
too she was kept at tension by the remembrance of her 
child. She excused herself once a week for an hour in 
order to attend early mass, and many indications pointed 
to religion. This was a mood to be encouraged. Little 
as George believed in Christianity, he knew how strong 
might be its moral impetus. Perhaps she might take the 
veil. That was perhaps the best solution. Perhaps this 
was but a passing influence. Could she forgo for ever the 
pleasures that she once had tasted, and that her beauty 
might so easily recall ? 

Yet she seemed different from the French girls who 
formed the complement, in a Bohemian world, to men 
like Jean Defrain. Hers had been the push of circum- 
stance, not the impetus of warm blood. She had broken 
with convention. They seemed never to have known con- 
vention. She had before her heaven or hell. They might 
enjoy their youthful fling, and earn husbands with their 
savings. 

It was the utter unmorality of these demoiselles that 
had kept George untouched by easy blandishments. He 
could understand the sinner. The pagan was of a world 
he loathed. 

Had Ethel not still been beautiful, he might have tired 
of his good nature and left her alone. But her attitudes 
were so graceful and so natural that he knew he might 


268 


HEARTS AND FACES 


never find so useful a model. Indeed, she suddenly sug- 
gested an idea that filled him with new spirit. 

She had been posing a month for him by this time. The 
last hour was always spent in rapid sketches of difficult 
positions suggesting movement, sometimes very tiring. 
Resting after one of these, she recalled so vividly the 
Sacred and Profane Love attributed to Titian, that George 
at first fancied himself under a hallucination. He passed 
his hand over his eyes only to see that it was true. The 
photograph on the wall beside her no doubt aided the 
reminiscence. Seizing on the pose he made two rapid 
sketches and compared them with the picture. They might 
have been drawn from the same model: only the hands 
were different. 

Venetian art has naught more ravishing than this, this 
long low panel with its tender landscape. On the margin 
of an antique well, ornate with sculptured reliefs, sit two 
female figures, so exquisitely placed that their variant entice- 
ments still are balanced. She on the right, undraped, her lips 
half open and voluptuously modelled, holds a censer with its 
rapturous fragrance up to heaven. On the left is a serener 
womanhood, love diviner — richly clad, but richer her chaste 
thoughts. Between them Cupid stirs the amorous waters. 

From the mere photograph one could not judge the col- 
our, but this only nurtured inspiration. Just the other 
day George had seen the copy of a Holbein made by Henner, 
where the spirit of the modern had reincarnated the original 
— the colour no more inlaid but vitally ingrowing. Here 
was a chance for a different experiment. Suppose he 
stepped still more in spirit with the old master, helped out 
by the living model on the base of this composition. After- 
wards he might visit Italy, and compare with the original. 

For a week he threw up everything to work out this idea. 
Ethel was as eager as himself, for her other reason. 
George's thirty francs a week made her life far less luxuri- 
ous than that secured before with easier morals or with her 
former wealth. Cravings once aroused are not lightly 
crushed ; and, had not her impulse been diverted to a sensu- 


PASSION-FLOWERS 


269 

ous religion, she might have broken loose. Now, however, she 
spent the whole day with George, who provided more gen- 
erous fare when she was with him than when he was alone. 
He was frightened when she fainted, afraid he had overtired 
her, and so he made amends at dinner. It was so much 
easier for her to be good like this, with wine and sweetmeats. 

A week, and still he had found no solution to his problem. 
He had sketched her in a score of lights, gaining suggestions 
of colour, but never as he wished it. The problem seemed 
impossible, unless — unless he were to tackle it in the open 
air, as of course the original implied. Of course! There 
was the key. The problem must always baffle if worked 
out only in a studio. 

“What makes you so distrait ?” asked Ethel that even- 
ing as they sat over their cigarettes in their usual res- 
taurant. She was beginning to enjoy life again, and had 
been talking brightly all through dinner. Some absurd 
answer told her that he was not listening. 

George flicked off his ash. 

“Pm stuck with that picture. I’m on the wrong lines.” 

“How?” she answered, her heart pulled up. “Am I 
not good enough ? Don’t I pose well ? I’m sorry I fainted 
to-day.” 

“No, it’s not you. You have the ideal figure — especially 
for the Profane Love.” 

Then he wished he had expressed it differently. 

“I mean,” he hastened to add, “it’s the light that’s 
wrong. It should be done or at least conceived not in a 
studio but in the open air. The whole picture implies it, 
and I was a fool not to have seen it before.” 

She was fear’s captive. Was this the end? Was it an 
excuse to break off with her? 

He saw the strain of her face. 

“What if I took you with me into the country?” 

“Oh!” she cried, with clasped hands. 

“That’s right,” he said. “It would be best for both of 
us. This studio life is too hard for you just yet, and we 
both want a change.” 


270 


HEARTS AND FACES 


“But how?” she asked. “Do you know of any place 
so secluded that it would be possible ?” 

“We could at any rate try. You remember that land- 
scape I showed you — the Ode to Psyche one? About ten 
miles from there in the forest is an out-of-the-way nook. 
I could go to a cottage I know at Marlotte. Some parts 
there of course are overrun, not all. We cannot stay in 
Paris all the summer, anyway.” 

“But how about me? How can I live? Is it cheap?” 

“Oh, we’ll manage that; you can live chez Mallet — 
that’s the hotel,” and then his thoughts went back to the 
picture. 

A little after Jean Defrain entered the restaurant with 
a woman whom George particularly loathed. Jean greeted 
them ironically. After all, his inference was only natural. 
George and Ethel had been so long together now, so often 
seen at galleries, and such tete-d-tete in such a place at such 
an hour meant in Paris as a rule something more than a 
platonic friendship. Ethel’s face, as they came in, was 
flushed with excitement at the thought of the country, but 
in front of her was an empty glass. The galling thing to 
George was that he should be derided by such a woman. 

“Let’s get out of this,” he said. “We can have coffee 
at the studio, and make our plans.” 

As they rose to leave he heard Jean’s mocking laughter. 
Ethel heard it too and faced him angrily. When Jean 
waved his hand familiarly, it seemed as if she were on the 
point of tears. George saw her lips trembling, and laid 
his hand on hers. She was so evidently grateful that he 
did not take it away, and so they passed into the street. 

In their Bohemian world, an evening visitation such as 
this meant nothing, and yet he slowed down as they ap- 
proached the studio. As for Ethel, she had not yet re- 
covered from the shock of finding how precarious was her 
claim on George. What if he had told her that he must 
leave her? Would she have drifted back into the old 
life? Could she have borne the discipline of simple living 
by herself? 


PASSION-FLOWERS 


271 


Why should she not take warning? Why should she 
not try to make the bond more close? George did not 
seem to hate her any longer, and he would never leave 
her to poverty or — the other thing — if — if 

Still he was so different from other men — like granite. 
Was he too hard and cold? 

She had been too sudden the first time she had offered 
herself. 

He hardly knew her then, and he was thinking only of 
his career. Now it was different. They were friends, 
good friends, and this was no world of chaperons. She had 
more chance now — and it was her only chance. 

She would take the risk. 

George, who hated stoves, had built an English hearth 
into the studio wall. The fire was blazing, filling the room 
with pleasant warmth. 

“This is just like home,” she said, slipping down on a 
stool by the fender. 

Coffee was soon ready, a delicious brew. George, in his 
old bachelor way, tilted his chair and leaned over the fire 
for company. 

“You would really like to go?” 

“Why, it’s lovely,” she said, her hands over her knee. 
“I am sick of Paris, and I have wanted ever so much to get 
away, but how could I? And then I seemed to be useful 
to you, especially of late. You said just now that I was 
just the ideal for that — Profane Love. Besides ” 

She hesitated. 

“Were you thinking of to-night — Jean Defrain?” 

“Yes, here I can’t help meeting those who have known 
me, who misunderstand. It is not fair to you. I have 
hindered you enough already. In the country it would be 
different. And then ” 

“And then ” 

“I am afraid — of Wolseley. We might meet him again 
here, and he might come between us — between you and me.” 

It was her first shaft. She dared not look up in his face, 
but sat all huddled up. 


272 


HEARTS AND FACES 


His silence made her rush on. 

“I am afraid of many things. To-night you frightened 
me. I thought at first that I was of no use to you, that you 
were tired of me, and were making excuses. Perhaps you 
are tired of me. Perhaps you are too poor to keep this up.” 

“No,” said George. “I can just manage.” 

“Just manage! Don’t you think it would be simpler 
if ” 

She looked up in his face, and their eyes met. It was 
electric. He understood. 

Her lids were the first to fall. No retreat was possible. 

“Can’t you understand,” she went on rather unsteadily, 
“I have not really changed?” 

He still said nothing. 

“I am at your mercy,” she said, catching his hand. 
“Perhaps you can do without me. I can’t do without you. 
It’s my only chance.” 

At last he spoke. 

“You said that before. Then it meant something else.” 

“Yes,” she said. “That was before I knew myself. Now 
I have found out. I cannot, I cannot be alone.” 

The firelight was playing in her hair. As she looked up 
once again, it seemed to flame in his heart. 

“I still am pretty, amn’t I?” she said. 

His lips moved, but without words. 

“Tell me your thoughts,” she said. “I am pretty, 
amn’t I?” 

“I was thinking,” he answered slowly, “that that is what 
Delilah must have said to Samson. Would you too bring 
the Philistines upon me?” 

“Yes, but it is different now. This is not England. I 
want to make amends for all that happened before. Tell 
me that I am pretty — and let the warm love in.” 

She was very fair. 

“At least it might be an experience,” he thought. 

She was as fair as Delilah, and he was no stronger than 
Samson. 


CHAPTER XXXVII 


MARLOTTE AND BARBIZON 

A S they drew up at the station Ethel jumped out 
in glorious spirits. No bird uncaged could have 
been more happy. They were not the only 
passengers to alight. A carriageful of family 
poured itself slowly on to the platform. Towering over 
all was the father in loose brown cloak, wide brown trousers, 
and soft brown wideawake hat. Surely another artist this. 

“Oh,” said George, “it swarms with them. The Mare 
aux Fees near here exists for painters and mosquitoes.” 

The Artist in Brown was evidently known, for the porter 
neglected George and Ethel till he had safely packed the 
others into their private conveyance. 

“That must be a great artist,” said George, when at last 
the porter deigned to reappear. 

“To be sure. Look at the size of his luggage!” 

In humbler fashion, on the common omnibus, the two 
travelled up with the village parcels to Marlotte. They 
were still outside the forest, a little to Ethel’s disappoint- 
ment. She had expected to find herself at once in ferny 
glades. Old Mallet grumbled when they passed his hostel, 
but up they went, and along to the outskirts of the village, 
where the cottage and a taciturn old peasant woman waited 
for them. A drab, uninteresting street, thought Ethel, till 
she saw it next morning at four o’clock in its pearly cloak 
of twilight. Then, then it was surely a lane of Paradise. 

Ethel was a town bird, and George had taken her to 
one of the loveliest spots in France. Was it any wonder 
that she should be lifted out of herself for the moment? 
To wake up early with the scent of the morning and watch 
the first faint light of day steal softly through the lattices ; 

273 


HEARTS AND FACES 


274 

to go out with George, and while he painted to gather 
fresh flowers for their simple table ; to breakfast in the open 
air, shaded by a delicious tree from the morning sun; to 
lie idly at the edge of the forest, listening to the swish, swish 
of the wind in the trees, building a song out of its sweet 
music; to fancy that George was coming to grow fond of 
her, to find her more and more a comrade day by day, to 
be a figure in his pictures and in his life — all these things 
brought her new gaiety and charm. 

Fortune seemed to favour the new alliance. On the 
second evening of their immigration, the close of a quiet day 
in May, he caught the light that he needed for his picture. 
Only half an hour of it, but the memory was ineffaceable. 

From that moment George became a whirlwind of colour. 
During the preceding summer he had not actually painted 
so much as soaked himself in the atmosphere of the place. 
The country was so new to him, so different in character 
from the heavy landscape he remembered in the Chilterns. 
A painter must get first acclimatised to the light and tone 
of such peculiar beauty before he dares to tackle it with 
any hope of mastery. So he had explored almost the whole 
of the forest and its edges, Keats in his hand, Millet and 
Rousseau and Diaz in his eyes, searching out and memoris- 
ing the modelling of trees and glades and their aerial en- 
velope. Of course he had sketched, and had completed the 
one picture, but that he knew in his heart to be a failure. 

All that education was now at his elbow. He met the 
familiar friends of form and colour face to face. For too 
long he had been obsessed by the town. Here in the open 
he was in a broader world. Nature after all was bigger 
than man. The eye that all the winter had been content 
with delicate shades and gradations battled at last with 
fuller masses of colour and of tone. Glowing shadows 
and vivid sunlight gripped him, smashed him. When at 
last the light faded into crepuscule he was a lover who for 
the first time feels that mystic trembling of the senses, 
silent, almost wondering. 

He did not love Ethel. That might never come. George 


MARLOTTE AND BARBIZON 


275 


would analyse his feelings with an acumen that he wished 
he could transfer to his work in art. He knew that this 
was no sympathy of souls. The past could not be blotted 
out. He understood at last that in a human relation he 
could never find a great emotion, that he was capable of 
sympathy, passion, hate, all to a degree, but only to a 
degree. Even in his work he had showed so far only talent 
and individuality, never genius. Fatalism crept upon him. 
He was content to live for the present, getting as much 
happiness as possible with the least cost to his neighbours. 

Yet there were already moments when he felt the vast 
pulse of Nature, when he felt that he was merged in great 
moods. So it was sometimes when he walked with Ethel 
along solitary paths away from the high road. One such 
moment was the sweetest of his memories. They had come 
upon a break in the forest, familiar and yet strange. The 
truth was flashed upon him that this was the scene of his 
favourite Rousseau, but with the evening not morning light 
upon it. It was impossible to speak, and Ethel in curious 
sympathy was also silent. There they stood as two souls 
might stand in the presence of the eternal Truth. 

All through Ethel’s career, whatever she had done had 
always been so tuned to her surroundings that she never 
knew her character was being touched, and it was only 
in moments of great excitement that she realised there had 
been any change at all. Now the change was for the bet- 
ter. The ugly past was slipping from her mind. She 
was with a hard-working, fairly healthy man, and she suited 
herself without much effort to her mate. There was no 
need for luxury here. Sufficient unto the day was the 
pleasure thereof. The healthier conditions of life con- 
tributed to her comfort — she had the stimulant of purer air. 

When night had fallen she would sit and read aloud the 
poetry that George particularly loved. Ah, how exquisite 
was her voice! Only a woman who had lived through 
passion could have put such passion into words. The 
music surged into his heart, an ocean whose tide was not 
to be denied. He might perhaps have taken up his pencil 


HEARTS AND FACES 


276 

to portray her as she read — but no, but no! It was an 
hour for reverie. 

So the summer slipped along. 

Ethel was eager to see Millet’s house at Barbizon, and 
to Barbizon one day they drove — some eighteen miles across 
the forest. Rooms were found with a little diffi- 
culty at an hotel. It was a Saturday, and a holiday, and 
the once old-world village was overrun with pleasure 
seekers, no artist visible. The air vibrated with the roll 
of carriages, even with an occasional motor-car, and any 
artist would have been swamped by Philistines. Not till 
they had walked past the corner of the road that turns to 
Chailli did they find the quiet air once breathed and loved 
by Millet and Rousseau. 

Here were old farm-yards, fat with happiness, and here 
the gossips of the walls. Asking leave to enter one of the 
yards they heard the munch of cows and found the cattle 
warm under a roof of spider-webs a century thick. 

“Do any artists still come here?” George asked the 
farmer’s wife. 

“Yes, monsieur,” she said sadly, “but not the same ar- 
tists. These new ones paint the colours that do not exist.” 

A little further on were fields, and in the distance, very 
sweet, the silhouette of Chailli. 

Then back to the whirl. 

George was sitting at a window overlooking the court- 
yard of the hotel when he heard a voice that seemed familiar. 

“Where are the pictures that you do not sell?” it said. 

The speaker then appeared, American in garb, though 
the accent was good French. By his side a lady, also from 
the States — no! it was Ravin and his wife! 

They were coming from the room reserved for pictures 
displayed especially for tourists. The patron himself es- 
corted them. He was shrugging his shoulders, no doubt 
at Ravin’s question, for he was there on business. 

“Ah well,” continued Ravin, “what is your charge for 
rooms ?” 

“Eight francs each, monsieur.” 


MARLOTTE AND BARBIZON 


277 


“But I ask for artists’ prices.” 

Again the patron shrugged his shoulders. 

“We have no artists’ prices.” 

“Very well, we go elsewhere.” 

As they were politely ushered out, George leaned over 
to hail them. Then he remembered his companion. 

Suppose he persuaded them to stay, how could he ex- 
plain his presence with Ethel. Ravin would surely remem- 
ber her — that incident of the night — he never believed in 
her. He was sure to remember. How could he understand ? 
How could he follow the change of mind that had at last 
persuaded George to such a step? No, it was impossible. 

Ethel was tired and lying in the other room, so that she 
knew nothing of what passed. Perhaps it was as well. 

Furious with himself, George waited till he heard a car- 
riage roll away. Then he rushed out to the entrance. 

By that time the vehicle had stopped at another hostelry. 
Should he conceal the fact of Ethel, and reclaim acquaint- 
ance? A few steps down the road, only to return. No, it 
was too late! 

From the shadow of the entrance he stood watching. 
Again Ravin and his wife came out, and again stopped at 
yet another inn further on. The comedy was repeated at 
the comer. 

This was a new trait in the generous Frenchman, to 
haggle for the price of rooms. His clothes did not suggest 
poverty. Was this the domestication of Miss Marriott? 

Baffled by Barbizon and its prices, the artist and his wife 
shouted a direction to their coachman, who turned his 
horses and drove off down the road to Chailli. 

Ethel could not understand why George was so short- 
tempered all that evening. Had she unwittingly offended 
him ? She was unconscious of anything but fatigue. Surely 
he did not think she was an Amazon. 

It was the same at the morning coffee. Sharp words 
passed between them, and George said roughly that he 
meant to walk to Chailli and alone. He would come back 
to dejeuner. 


278 


HEARTS AND FACES 


* As he entered Chailli a train steamed out of the station. 
His heart sickened with foreboding, and the fear was right. 
The first hotel he stopped at had been the hotel where 
Ravin and his wife had stayed. 

“Yes, but they had just left for Paris. They said they 
had had enough of Barbizon. A flying trip through Europe. 
The gentleman, though French, was settled in America.” 

The chance of meeting him again was gone, no doubt 
for ever. 

Yet for the first time he felt ashamed. How he must 
have lowered himself to be afraid to meet a Bohemian like 
Ravin ! If only a chance should come of breaking off with 
Ethel he would take it. Still, was it altogether her fault? 
Was he not also to blame, and should she suffer for it? 
For the present he would pretend no barrier had come be- 
tween them. That was only fair to Ethel. 

Well, well, perhaps it was for the best. Away with the 
past ! He had to face the future. 

So it was that when he rejoined his companion, George 
apologised. Ethel thought it was the exercise that had im- 
proved his temper, and resolved to profit by the experience. 
George had been sitting about sketching too much of late. 
She must keep him in good humour by encouraging more 
walks. 

On their return to Marlotte she saw at once an oppor- 
tunity. That night she read from Keats, and turned to 
the Ode to Psyche. 

“You have never taken me there, to that part of the 
forest,” she said. “I should so like to see it. It must be 
beautiful. But of course don’t bother if it would interfere 
with your work.” 

“No, it wouldn’t interfere,” said George. “I should like 
to go again, and see why I was wrong in my colour. Per- 
haps I could tell now. But it’s a long walk — over ten 
miles there. Are you strong enough?” 

“I’m sure I could do it. This country life has made me 
fit for anything.” 

It was agreed. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII 


THE LOST BIRTHRIGHT 

R AIN had fallen during the night. The wind was 
fresh and cool. A fantastic mind might have 
imagined fairies in the boughs swinging censers, 
so fragrant was the air they breathed. Through 
a strip of forest, then up over the hill into more forest, 
until Ethel sank out of breath upon a mossy slope and 
laughingly demanded dejeuner. 

“Only another mile,” said George. 

At last they were there. His picture had been truer 
than he thought. Perhaps he had been too literal. The 
values in the distance had been his stumbling block. 

Walking had been hot work, for the midday sun quickly 
dissolved the moisture of the morning. The dryness of 
their bread and cheese also made the little stream worth 
more than gold. How sweet its waters were — sweeter 
than any nectar ! So prettily it ran under its flowery banks 
that they agreed to freshen their feet in its delicate 
tide. 

George lay there, dreaming dreams. Into his mind came 
the memory of that melody of Brahms, with its still more 
exquisite words : 

“Ich ruhe still im hohen griinen Gras.” 

Then he remembered the Plato he had read, long years 
ago, and the Eros he had never been able to understand. 
Now he understood it, the being part of Nature and the 
yearning for Nature. Why did one learn philosophy in 
musty libraries, not in the open fields? There above him 
was that fathomless blue. Let him but shut his eyes and 

279 


28 o 


HEARTS AND FACES 


it was night. Ah, what was that wonderful passage in one 
of Millet’s letters to Sensier? Millet must have felt it all 
in this very forest of Fontainebleau. 

“Oh, how I wish I could make those who see my work 
feel the splendours and terrors of the night! One ought 
to be able to make people hear the songs, the silences and 
murmurings of the air. They should feel the infinite. Is 
there not something terrible in thinking of these lights 
which rise and disappear, century after century, without 
varying? They light both the joys and sorrows of man, 
and when our world goes to pieces, the beneficent sun will 
watch the universal desolation without pity.” 

“I hear voices,” said Ethel, waking him from his reverie. 
“At least a voice, the voice of a child.” 

“Probably a peasant from some neighbouring village.” 

“There is a man too — a Parisian,” said Ethel, listening. 

“Artists perhaps, like ourselves. They don’t concern 
us.” 

Ethel lay down again with her head on leafy moss. 

“There they are again,” she said a moment later, and 
springing up she looked curiously into the trees. 

“Eve all over again,” grumbled George. “Can’t you lie 
down and be happy?” 

“I shall explore,” she said, and moved away into the 
wood. 

“They are up stream,” said George as she went off. 
“Their voices are carried down by the water.” 

Then he turned over again. 

In spite of himself he too listened, although he did not 
follow her. The voices of the man and the child came 
intermittently, then ceased. There was only the sough of 
trees and the ripple of water. Then, very faint, a sound 
of sobbing. 

George leaned over the water to make sure. Yes, there 
it was. 

“What can have happened?” he thought, and quietly 
made his way towards the sound. Fancies flitted before 


THE LOST BIRTHRIGHT 


281 


him, finding no reason. Some trees, then a clearing and 
he was there. Ethel sat alone, and as if heart-broken. 

Before her was an easel on which a half-finished canvas 
stretched. The pool and leafy bank which formed the 
mise en scene were laid in with masterly precision. So 
too the figure, slung in with a few strokes — the figure of 
a little girl. Then George remembered and understood. 
It was Claire, just as in Pourgot’s Salon picture. The 
motif of the picture was the same, though this was in the 
open air, with the sunlight and the tremor of leaves. Pour- 
got himself must be painting, and had left this canvas, per- 
haps for a rest. Of course ! He remembered now. Pour- 
got was a native of this very district of Fontainebleau. 
Far away through the forest he could hear the little one’s) 
laughter. Ethel must have heard it too, for she sat up 
listening. As yet she had not perceived George, who 
stood behind, scarce breathing. Then she turned again to 
the picture and to bitter grief. 

George looked again at the canvas. It was only the 
child that he saw this time — the child and the mother. 

Again the voice of young laughter, this time nearer. 

“Ethel,” whispered George, “she is coming.” 

With a cry, she turned round, showing a face so unutter- 
ably sad that he was shocked. 

“How old she looks,” he thought. 

Nearer still, but Ethel seemed rooted to the spot. Then 
she leaned forward, and with a gesture of exquisite tender- 
ness kissed her fingers to the little figure that laughed upon 
the canvas. 

The voice was at hand, two voices — that of the child, 
and of an elder, a woman. 

George caught Ethel by the hand and pulled her away. 
She came unwillingly. It was as in a nightmare. 

Boughs were pushed aside, and into the open burst the 
little child, the child of the picture, little Claire, her arms 
all full of flowers. No flowers so lovely as her face. 

Ethel wrenched her hand away. 

“Claire!” she cried, holding out her arms. 


282 


HEARTS AND' FACES 


The child started back, half frightened, to her com- 
panion. This was an elderly woman, surely Mother 
Labori. 

Holding Claire close to her, she looked at Ethel, and 
angrily remembered her. 

“You!” she cried fiercely, “what are you doing here? 
Have you forgotten your contract, your oath?” 

Ethel trembled and again caught George’s hand. Then, 
with a voice infinitely sad, she faltered : 

“May not a mother ” 

“Mother!” hissed the woman. “Away with you — you — 
harlot !” 

Ethel shrank before that avalanche of scorn. Then turned 
and fled blindly through the forest. 

George found it no easy task to keep pace with her. 
The scene had passed so swiftly that he could not collect 
his thoughts. Suddenly she stumbled on a root, falling 
heavily to the ground. George was on his knees to pick 
her up, but she only struggled to get away. 

How they found their way back to their cottage that 
night, neither of them could ever tell. The merest chance 
brought them on to the right road, and after a tramp of 
fourteen miles the light of the familiar window brought 
faint cheer to their hearts. 

Next day poured with rain, and George never knew more 
miserable moments. Ten years seemed to have been added 
to Ethel’s life. He had once put his arm round her neck 
in sympathy, but she had hysterically spurned his pity. 
That made him sulky and irritable; and, as his more criti- 
cal nature began to assert itself, he felt thankful that 
he was not bound to her for life. There were advan- 
tages in Bohemian matings after all, whatever moralists 
might say. 

Next day was fine, but Ethel clearly meant to stay at 
home. After a silent breakfast, George made a great 
show of getting ready his paint-box, but she buried herself 
in a book. He banged the door angrily behind him, but 
saw through the window that she had not moved. 


THE LOST BIRTHRIGHT 283 

“Damn her!” he thought “It is her own fault that 
she does not get sympathy.” 

A glorious day, and the return to work soon restored 
his spirits. Time sped so fast that he forgot all save 
beauty. A thought of Ethel would come, but only for a 
moment. 

At last the failing light and the now poignant sense of 
hunger would not be denied. He collected his things, and 
retraced his steps to the cottage. The lamp had been lit 
already, for the window shone warm and translucent in 
the dusk. He stepped almost on tiptoe to the door that 
opened to their sitting-room, and listened. 

No sound. 

He opened the door. The room was empty. Ethel was 
evidently upstairs. 

Food was spread on the table. 

“Perhaps a headache,” he thought. 

As he laid down his things, he looked at his hands. 
Very dirty, so he washed them at the pump. By Jove, 
how hungry he was! 

A note on his plate: 

“Good-bye. 

“She was right. - I’m a bad lot, and I had better recog- 
nise it. It’s no good my living on here and letting you 
get to like me. I am what she says, and I should end by 
dragging you down, after the fit of virtue had passed off. 
We have had a good time, and you have been so kind to 
me. It would be a pity to spoil it. I’m off to the old life. 
Forget me. 

“Ethel.” 

Poor girl! 

She had a good heart. How pitiful and how cruel the 
world ! 

It would be useless to try and stop her. She must have 
been gone some hours. She was gone, and Paris was a 
haystack. 

He would miss her, but still she meant so little to him. 


284 


HEARTS AND FACES 


His picture could be finished now without her. And had 
he not been waiting for such an opportunity of separation? 

Had she begun to drag him down ? Perhaps a little. He 
did not see it in his work, only at times in his thoughts. 
Perhaps it was as well that the affair was over. 

It had been an experience, one that he would not care 
to repeat, though the taste had not been bitter. 

Next day he was up earlier than ever; and, though he 
found work difficult at first, by evening he knew that it 
was no longer misery to be alone. 

There is no balm like work. 

Only once did he allow his thoughts to dwell for any 
length of time on that interlude. One last walk before 
he returned to Paris took him to the place where tragedy 
had centred. 

For a long time he hesitated before he went, wondering 
if it would not be better to forget utterly. Then he jug- 
gled with himself. He would go once more, not be- 
cause he had been with Ethel, but in order again to com- 
pare his “Ode to Psyche” landscape with the spot that had 
inspired it. Again he would try to find out where he had 
failed. 

The leaves were turning, but the stream rippled on as 
it had rippled on that distressing day. Still the sky was 
blue, and sweet the air. 

He had his Keats with him, that well-thumbed volume, 
and again he hesitated at the fatal page. Strange that a 
rhyme so ethereal should have issued in such pain. 

How exquisite the words were! The oftener he read 
them, the more he wondered — and the more he understood. 
How he had misunderstood! How was it that he had so 
often syllabled this music without discovering the mean- 
ing? And yet that last verse made it plain enough. 

“Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane 

In some untrodden region of my mind, 

Where branched thoughts, new-grown with pleasant pain, 

Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind. . . . 


THE LOST BIRTHRIGHT 


285 


And in the midst of this wide quietness 

A rosy sanctuary will I dress 

With the wreath'd trellis of a working brain, 

With buds and bells and stars without a name, 

With all the gardener Fancy e’er could feign, 

Who, breeding flowers, will never breed the same: 

And there shall be for thee all soft delight 

That shadowy thought can win ” 

"Thought! Thought!” he cried. "That’s it!” 

Psyche! Psyche! To think that any one should clothe 
you in fleshly form! 

There was the solution at his door, when he had been 
tramping through experiences to find it. 

Away with the flesh ! On now with the spirit ! 

All the way home he sang to himself at his discovery. 
It was worth a wire to Reid at twopence a word. 

The forest had never seemed so beautiful. He was so 
mad that he could have kissed the trees. 

What a life there was before him — work and work and 
work! 


CHAPTER XXXIX 


THE PICTURE IN THE SALON 

B ACK in Paris, George did not make any active 
search for Ethel, nevertheless was actively on the 
watch. When the next Salon came round, Pour- 
got’s picture of Claire was hailed as one of the 
best of the year, certainly as one of the most popular. It 
was reproduced in photographs shown in a thousand win- 
dows. Paris was obsessed by it. 

If Ethel still remained in Paris, George felt sure that 
she must haunt this room in the Salon. Unwilling as he 
was to take her up again, he felt compelled more than 
once to go there just to see if she had not been drawn to 
the picture too. Perhaps she might work it mischief. Fa- 
natics were known to hack offending canvases. Ethel might 
perhaps be driven to a like folly. 

It was not Ethel whom he found there near the picture, 
but always — Pourgot! That little man was evidently child 
of Vanity. George would go there somewhat sad, then 
regain his humour when he realised the artist’s hunger 
for applause. Pourgot was glued there, feigning to study 
the other pictures, but all the while keeping his eye on 
those who passed his own. Did they stop to look at it, 
admire it — then his face beamed with happiness. Did they 
pass it carelessly or criticise, then he gesticulated as if 
protesting. “No! No! You are unfair — it really is a fine 
painting, my very best.” 

If on the other hand Pourgot noticed any artist friend 
approaching, he would slip away into another room. He 
was vain enough not to wish to be counted vain. That 
would be to be ridiculous. 


286 


THE PICTURE IN THE SALON 


287 


George had his discovery to himself. 

Ethel never came. 

Perhaps she stayed away because she wished to forget. 
Such indeed was the spirit one might have expected from 
her letter of farewell. She had sold her birthright. She 
must for ever be a stranger to her child. Of what use 
were vain reminders? 

The shadow of the living Ethel did not fall upon the 
picture, and yet the Fates, spinning their web, would not 
leave all shadow out. The darkness of their choosing was 
cast by Wolseley Greville. 

It was on a morning late in May. George, out of taste 
with work, urgent with the call of country, stepped along 
to the Salon just for one last look. There were not yet 
many visitors — it was still so early — but from a little dis- 
tance in the adjoining room one could see the inevitable 
watcher hovering round his darling canvas. Pourgot had 
not yet recognised George in the distance, and was impa- 
tient for this fresh visitor to add his tribute. George, how- 
ever, had come to see the comedy, not to play in it, and 
dillydallied, therefore, over a foolish flower-piece which no 
doubt owed its presence to some friend at court. 

Then the sound of strident English voices. Turning 
round he saw two men, evidently in liquor, unsteadily come 
in. One of them had a limp. It was Wolseley Greville. 
Repulsive as he had always been, Greville looked more 
bestial still in drink. That was a satyr’s leer. 

George felt his knees a-tremble, but controlled himself 
sufficiently to walk unnoticed to a corner. 

Greville and the other had evidently come to see what 
Cameron called “them noods,” and fortunately there were 
few such in the room where George evaded them. But 
Pourgot’s room was more what they expected, and when 
they came to Pourgot’s picture of Claire, they swayed in 
front of it, hiccoughing their dirty laughter. 

Except for Pourgot, they were alone, but Pourgot in 
his pent-up fury was as good as twelve. English he hardly 
understood, but no one could mistake the significance of this. 


288 


HEARTS AND FACES 


Tense with passion, he pushed them away, and then when 
Greville resisted, slashed his gloves across the latter’s face. 

“Hullo !” said Greville, rather sobered, “look at this spit- 
fire. What’s the matter with this French son-of-a 
gun?” 

Pourgot, unable to express his rage, pointed to the pic- 
ture, and then to the door. Greville, all slavering, mis- 
understood. 

“Oui, oui!” he said, pointing to the picture, and then 
at himself. “Right you are! Bring the girl along — for 
me — for me — cette fille — pour moi !” 

“No! No!” Pourgot almost screamed. Then seeing 
George, who had approached, thinking it time to intervene. 
“Ah, my friend, this maquereau has insulted me.” Then 
whipping out a card, “Tell him I will fight him — I will 
kill him.” 

Catching Pourgot’s arm: 

“Cher maitre,” said George, “do not compromise your- 
self with men such as these. They are drunk; we will 
get the attendant to throw them out.” 

Meanwhile the attendants, hearing the noise, had come 
of their own accord. Seizing Greville and his companion, 
they made short work of these worthies. Pourgot they 
knew, and with the aid of vast gesticulation and commo- 
tion, pacified his wounded fury. 

The incident had not been without its humorous side, 
but George went back to his studio ill at ease. 

Ethel might be gone, but Wolseley Greville remained. 
That sinister presence had always been of evil omen. 

Should George leave France? 

No, not yet. It would not be fair to Ethel. He must give 
her a chance. Perhaps he could assist her still. She might 
even require his aid, with this foul blackguard now in Paris. 

And so, though he might easily have slipped away, George 
kept to the paths she might remember. That sum- 
mer, and the next two summers also, he returned to Fon- 
tainebleau and Marlotte. The intervening winters were at 
Paris. 


CHAPTER XL 


CARNIVAL AT VIENNA 

T HUS it was that George remained on his familiar 
ground at Marlotte and at Fontainebleau. 
Here was always a sympathetic landscape, and 
the peasants were used to painters. He sent 
his “Little Shepherd Boy” with two other canvases to 
the Academy, only to be rejected. A similar fate next year. 
This might have made him angry, had he not won a men- 
tion at the Salon and a medal at Munich. He was elected 
to the International, and found it hard to keep pace with 
the demands of Continental Exhibitions and collectors 
who vied with one another in encouraging so distinctive a 
note in modern art. 

This gave George the wherewithal to travel. He spent 
a year in the Lowlands, another in Germany, another in 
Austria. 

As to his art, although distinctive, it was not really a 
new note. 

It stood out from the rest because it was so thorough and 
sincere. In the haste to produce, or in the struggle to be 
brilliant, or in the rush to pay the rent, these are old- 
fashioned virtues, yet virtues all the same. 

Instead of sending out eleventh-hour pictures, he put his 
canvases aside till he could see them with a fresh eye, then 
modelled and remodelled, adding a half-tone here and 
a plane there till the world was re-created in which the 
first inspiration had drawn breath. “Infinite patience” was 
Reid’s original gospel, and infinite patience made pos- 
sible the care, the placing, the analysis and re-construc- 
tion of the light which made George’s pictures seem 
so satisfying and complete. They were not tight or Aca- 

289 


290 


HEARTS AND FACES 


demic, nor, on the other hand, were they of the brush- 
mark school, where you can hardly see the picture for 
the paint. Harmonious, broad, unaffected, they held the eye 
of any that had eyes to see because they were so luminous, 
so full of atmosphere, so admirably balanced. 

Figures played a notable part in most of his romantic 
landscapes. But the picture which won him a place in 
the Luxembourg was landscape pure and simple — that 
quiet “Dawn on the Canal,” painted at Ghent under the 
walls of the Castle of the Courts of Flanders. If you have 
seen it, you surely cannot have forgotten it: the warm 
red mass of roofs, old houses with their back-ends brooding 
on the waters, the grey-red brick beyond, one white 
fagade lit up with a splash of blue, the mirror of low-toned 
reflection, one note of green in the castle garden, massive 
battlemented walls, and over it all the sweet aerial envelope 
of spring. 

In all George’s travels he was solitary. Of course he 
made hotel friends, meteoric table-mates who flashed in 
and out of his acquaintance. Men who bought his pictures 
could not understand why he had so little to say about 
art, and about himself. Sometimes they wondered if they 
had done right to buy at all. They were mostly specula- 
tors in “futures,” and he talked as if the world were but 
his coffin. 

The truth is that art-talk bored him. He knew what 
he liked, what he wanted to express, and knew the futility 
of mere aestheticism. The hours spent in argument were 
lost to action, when he might be studying atmosphere 
and light. 

A curious and unexpected record of an incident in Aus- 
tria appears in the posthumous “Memoirs of a Courte- 
san,” written by that brilliant, strange degenerate Marie 
von Ischl. 

Here is a translation of the chapter in which she men- 
tions him : 

“Sitting in the entrance hall of the Bristol and watching 
the come-and-go of traffic, I noticed a clean-shaven high- 


CARNIVAL AT VIENNA 


291 


life biped go up to the counter, purchase a Daily Mail 
and pretend to read it, while in a mirror hidden in the 
palm of his right hand he studied my own very elegant 
figure. 

“As I had a rendezvous with the Prince in half an hour, 
I was in no mood to engage just then in any so flagrant 
an affaire , but I flicked a note across to the head porter, 
asking, ‘Who and what is this elegant?’ Answer — ‘Mr. 
George Grange, London — said to be an artist/ 

“On which I made a telling, languorous exit, regretfully. 

“I was risking the loss of a new thrill. 

“An artist in such clothes? 

“He was a woman-hater, not a woman-hunter — I felt 
sure of it. 

“I am bored to death by amorous fools. 

“As luck would have it, the Prince had a summons to 
Budapest. This left me the evening free, so after the 
theatre I went to the Redout. 

“Although in the full height of Carnival, it was not really 
gay. So many of the women were, alas, so old. It was 
their only chance — under the mask — to drink one last sad 
drop of passion. But I had an instinct I should meet this 
man again. 

“There, leaning against a pillar, his crush hat under his 
arm, hands in pocket a I’anglaise, stood my dandy artist, 
studying the crowd. 

“I had come to intrigue, in my black mask and domino 
with the old-gold dress and shoes. 

“ ‘Good evening/ I said, going boldly to him. ‘How do 
you like our Vienna? Is it not gay?’ 

“He turned his head towards me, but otherwise did not 
move. 

“I had met this Rock of Gibraltar attitude in his com- 
patriots before and was not dismayed. 

“ ‘Yes/ I said. ‘This is Vienna — sad, mad, bad, glad, 
as your poet said of something else/ 

“One hand came out of its pocket. Faint flicker of a 
smile. But still no answer. 


292 


HEARTS AND FACES 


“You are looking for some one?’ 

“ ‘Yes/ 

“ ‘A woman ?’ 

“ ‘Yes/ 

“ ‘Won’t I do?’ 

“ ‘Sorry/ 

“'Do I look too virtuous ?’ 

“ 'No/ 

“ ‘Ah ! I am too wicked. I thought so. You are very 
clever to penetrate my character through this disguise. 
But then you are an artist, are you not?’ 

“The Rock began to crumble. 

“ ‘Possibly/ 

“‘You paint pictures — real pictures in oils?’ 

“ ‘Sometimes/ 

“ ‘How interesting ! I had always heard that English 
artists could just paint Christmas cards/ 

“He smiled again and lit a cigarette. 

“ ‘Tell me the name of your friend/ I said. ‘Perhaps 
I know her/ 

“ ‘I have no friend/ 

“ ‘Bravo !’ I cried. ‘That is a sentence of four words. 
We shall soon have quite a conversation. What a nice 
companion you would be, say in a thunderstorm/ 

“ ‘Come/ he said, relieving the pillar. ‘Let’s have a 
drink.’ 

“We found a quiet table and the waiter brought each of 
us a spritz. 

“ ‘Tell me/ I said, ‘Why are you not gay like all the 
rest of us ? This is Vienna — Carnival — Redout — two o’clock 
in the morning.’ 

“ ‘I catch a train at eight/ 

“ ‘Six hours of glorious life — Pros’t — omnes eodem 
cogimur — or as you say in London, “We all must travel 
Underground.” ’ 

“He blew rings beautifully. 

“ ‘I see/ I interjected. ‘You mean to imply these hours 
must end in smoke/ 


CARNIVAL AT VIENNA 


293 


“Looking me in the eyes : 

“ ‘You speak most excellent English/ he admitted. 

“ 'Yes/ I said. 'My fourth and thirteenth lovers both 
were lords/ 

“ 'Eighteenth or nineteenth century ?’ was his astonish- 
ing reply. 

“I could have killed him. 

" 'No, no/ I answered, calming myself. 'I am not an- 
other Ninon l’Enclos. I am not half so old as my foolish 
boast might lead you to believe — I have lived rap- 
idly.’ 

“ 'So I can imagine/ he replied. 'Waiter — another spritz 
— no, only one — coffee for me.’ 

“ 'You are not fair/ I continued. 'You judge too quickly. 
You do not know me.’ 

''He was a furious smoker — five cigarettes already since 
we had sat down. 

“ 'Yet I am not afraid/ I went on eagerly. ‘I like to 
hear the truth. Tell me what you think of me. Be as 
cruel as you like — I shall not be angry.’ 

''He sat just looking at me, saying nothing. 

“I began to grow nervous. I must have my answer. 

“ 'Tell me/ I urged. 'What do you think of me?’ 

'"You?’ he said at last, quite sadly. ‘You are one of 
the vast army of superfluous women.’ 

''And with that he rose and left me. 

“Ugh! I could not sleep that night, thinking of what 
he had said. 

“Was I, too, growing old? 

“The Prince came back from Pesth — very affectionate 
— a lovely diamond bracelet. No, I was still in my prime. 

“I sauntered through His Highness’s apartments, read- 
ing the letters that he left so carelessly about and mak- 
ing myself at home. Then I examined the walls. I had 
not hitherto had such an opportunity by daylight. 

“Candidly I do not admire the Prince’s taste. It is too 
modern for me. But there was one picture that I could 
not pass. 


294 


HEARTS AND FACES 


“‘What do you think of it?’ His Highness said, seeing 
that I stood before it. I had not noticed it before, but 
now I could not leave it. 

“How beautiful it was ! I recognised at once the garden 
at Miramar — the tall Lombardy poplars, the formal hedges, 
the blaze of flowers, the delicious sculpture, and beyond, 
the deep blue Adriatic. 

“Miramar! It was there that I went with Tony when 
we were at Trieste, waiting for the steamer to Dalmatia. 

“ ‘Perfect ! Perfect !’ I cried, tears in my eyes. ‘Who is 
the artist?’ 

“ ‘Would you believe it, an Englishman — no, Scotch 
— he called himself George Grange — a silent and unsociable 
creature — no one could make friends with him. He had 
asked permission to paint there in the garden. I came 
upon him one day when he had almost finished. I could 
not let a master-piece like that go by.’ 

“ ‘No, indeed,’ I said. ‘Did he ask much for it?’ 

“ ‘More than your diamond bracelet.’ 

‘“I would rather have the picture,’ I suggested. 

“I begged, I prayed, I cajoled — in vain. 

“His Highness would not part with it. 

“Kismet! George Grange was not for me.” 


CHAPTER XLI 


UNDER ITALIAN SKIES 

A FTER Vienna Innsbruck, and then from Innsbruck 
in the footsteps of Goethe over the Brenner into 
Italy. 

Have you read the Italienische Reise? Then 
you remember Goethe and the Court of Weimar — cold, 
narrow, provincial, Gothic. Eager to see Rome, Goethe 
escapes and by postilion crosses the Alps into the warm 
classic South. Verona — Vicenza — Venice — Palladio’s great 
architecture persuades him and pervades. Then at last 
Rome receives him a final convert to the Renaissance. 

Goethe travelled by postilion, but George, starting in 
early spring, not autumn, found it more seasonable to 
make the route by train. At Mori, however, he left the 
railway for the Riva road, so that he might not miss the 
azure splendour of the Lago di Garda. After a delicious 
day at Torbole he took the steamer down the Lake, stop- 
ping here and there as Goethe had done over a hundred 
years before. For the first time since his student days 
he was glad that he knew a little Latin. Here in the warm 
sunshine, among the olives and the citrons, he remembered 
he was in the country of Catullus. The Latin itself he had 
mostly forgotten, but as he came to Desenzano he caught 
the echo in Tennyson : 

“Row us out from Desenzano, to your Sirmione row ! 

So they row’d, and there we landed — ‘O venusta Sirmio !’ 
There to me thro’ all the groves of olive in the summer 
glow, 

There beneath the Roman ruin where the purple flowers 
grow. 

Came that ‘Ave atque Vale’ of the Poet’s hopeless woe, 
295 


HEARTS AND FACES 


296 

Tenderest of Roman poets nineteen-hundred years ago, 
‘Frater Ave atque Vale’ — as we wandered to and fro, 
Gazing at the Lydian laughter of the Garda Lake below 
Sweet Catullus’s all-but-island, olive-silvery Sirmio!” 

Venice he had seen before. He had remembered Turner’s 
wonderful vision of the “Approach to Venice” — had taken 
steamer from Trieste to see and know that it was true. 
With its serene blue sky, its colour, its voluptuous languor, 
Venice fascinated George just as much upon this second 
visit. It was more easy now to understand both Titian 
and Giorgione. 

But as he passed through Northern Italy what most of 
all engaged him was the pulsating industry of Turin and 
Milan. This after all was no mere land of picture gal- 
leries and ruins and cathedrals and palazzos. It was in- 
tense with workers. Surely it must have its living art as 
well as its dead Old Masters. Ah yes! there was Segan- 
tini — who painted the Alps in the Brianza, as he said, not 
as a background but for their own sake — who in the morn- 
ing, before taking up his brush, would kneel before them 
as so many altars under the heavens. 

George had no blind obeisance for Old Masters. He 
was an artist, not an art dealer. After a week at Florence 
he had thought, “Better one piquant young factory girl 
than a million dead Madonnas.” Miles and miles of fres- 
coes, altar-pieces, portraits, ended by depressing him. Why 
should any one add to this vast output? 

This was satiety rather than arrogance. As George had 
worked his way through Europe he had spent half his 
time in the great galleries, sifting and analysing the methods 
of the dead. Sometimes he came across a picture there 
which ravished him; for instance, that Vermeer van 
Delft at Amsterdam — a woman reading at a window 
— blue and silvery grey — and that “Christ on the Cross,” 
by Albrecht Diirer at Dresden, of deep and tender blue. 
It must have been of some such picture as this that Diirer 
wrote : 


UNDER ITALIAN SKIES 


297 


"I have painted it with great care, as you will see, using 
none but the best colours I could get. It is painted with 
good ultramarine under and over and over that again, 
some five or six times, and then after it was finished I 
painted it again twice over so that it may last a long time. 
If it is kept clean I know it will remain bright and fresh 
five hundred years, for it is not done as men are wont to 
paint.” 

These were not pictures to attract the crowd. They 
were small — like jewels. At Dresden many a time he had 
stood before the Diirer quite alone. Whereas Raphael’s 
huge and facile Sistine Madonna had a special room, a 
chapel almost, rows of seats before it, with ardent and 
perspiring Germans. 

This acreage of pictures seen at Florence was suggestive 
more of manufacture than of art. Yet when George came 
out from the galleries into the sunshine under the blue 
sky, and felt the gaiety and sparkle of the Italian air, he 
felt the inspiration come upon him, too, to be at work 
with brush and palette and colour, expressing the impulse 
of his heart before this bright and joyous vision. 

Italy did this for him — it heightened the pitch to which 
he tuned the world in his pictures. The English and the 
Scots up North belong to the Cimmerians, mythical in- 
habitants of a land of fog: 

“Dark is the land where they dwell, windy nesses and holds 
of the wolf.” 

The nature of these Northerners is to see the world 
sombre in tone. Constable tried to lift the veil — ‘light 
— dews — breezes — bloom — freshness’ was his great gospel. 
He did his best, but what could that best be under a cloudy 
sky? 

In the more pearly atmosphere of Northern France the 
pitch is heightened, colour is gayer, and the air less melan- 
choly. But for the blaze of light, so light that even the 
shadows glow, so luminous that cobalt can count as black, 
where cadmium and emerald green and madder and the 


298 


HEARTS AND FACES 


whitest white are all the other primaries, where the whole 
atmosphere vibrates with sunshine, the artist must take 
his eyes and heart a little farther south. 

Rome! 

Baedecker starred an hotel called the Excelsior , and 
George in his innocence telegraphed for a room on the day 
he intended to arrive. He was received by a polite, ges- 
ticulating major-domo with: 

“But, Mr. Grange! at such short notice! Impossible! 
But I have telephoned to the Regina, they will find you 
a room. I can recommend — most sorry !” 

Certainly an obliging gentleman. 

The Regina was also polite, but rather supercilious — 
evidently a private hotel and exclusive, only for the best 
families. George might be, and might be not all right. 

The hall porter could not say whether there was a room. 
He would call the manager. 

Well-cut clothes were the best introduction. The man- 
ager looked at George and relented. 

“A room with bath on the first floor. ,, 

The whole staff suddenly became obsequious. 

They waved him into a lift. It was more like a private 
palace. 

With coat-tails swaying, the manager led the way. The 
room he offered was delightful — Louis XIV. 

“And here — the bath-room.” 

He turned the handle, and preceded. 

A shriek, and out he came like a pistol shot. The bath 
was already occupied. 

“Mon Dieu! — the Princess!” 

The femme de chambre, who had been off her guard, 
dashed in from the room next door and hustled them out. 

Poor manager! 

He kept such countenance as he could muster, and 
opened another door further down the passage. 

“That stupid servant!” he said, “why did she not tell 
us what she had arranged? Why did she not lock the 
door? The Princess! Mon Dieu!” 


UNDER ITALIAN SKIES 


299 


He left the new guest in possession, wringing his hands. 

“At any rate,” thought George, as he lay in his most 
comfortable bed, laughing to himself, “Rome has some- 
thing else to show than ruins and Madonnas.” 

When he woke next morning to his cafe complet, the sun 
was shining — did it ever rain here? — and he jumped up 
to dress and plan the day. There was the Vatican, the 
Sistine Chapel, the Forum, enough for a thousand days; 
but first of all there was the Titian he had tried to recon- 
struct, the “Sacred and Profane Love,” Ethel as his 
model. 

Ethel ! Where was she now ? 

Brushing away that cloud, he opened the window and 
inhaled the sunny air. 

Sauntering out, past the still obsequious servants, he 
wandered into the Corso, where he found himself looking 
into a window full of photographs. There was one of the 
picture. It was at the Borghese. 

“Borghese!” he said, hailing a cab. 

The Roman drivers are at least as bright as those in 
London. They know what all the strangers do not know, 
that there are two Borgheses, the Palazzo in its square 
and the Villa at the Pincian Gate. And as the Villa was 
the farthest off, to the Villa they went. This was before 
the picture collection had been transferred to the rooms 
where now they may be seen, and the Villa not only did 
not have the picture, but moreover it was not open to the 
public in the mornings. 

“Ah then!” said the driver, when they had found the 
error out, “you mean the Palazzo.” 

So back into the streets again. Yet it was all so wonder- 
fully interesting, so much more up-to-date than he had ex- 
pected, and the slm was shining — so who cared? 

At last, a little trembling, George came to the picture of 
his dreams. 

How perfect ! How absolutely overwhelming ! 

Great God! To think he had the arrogance to match 
his skill with this! 


300 


HEARTS AND FACES 


The guardian of the room watched him suspiciously. 
He was so strange, he muttered so — perhaps he was a 
madman. 

Coming up to test him : 

“Monsieur,” he said, “a beautiful picture, is it not? 
Worth a fortune. They say that Pierpont Morgan offers 
twenty million lire.” 

That brought George back to earth. 

“Yes, yes,” he said, “yes, yes !” 

Then pulled himself together, while the guardian, retiring, 
but still suspicious, watched him from the door- way. 

The gallery closed at three, and not till three did George 
go out. 

Here on one perfect canvas was the whole teaching of 
his Master. 

And here, on one canvas, was the tragedy of Ethel’s life. 


CHAPTER XLII 


ON THE TRAIL 

D URING these years, George had made no deliberate 
search for Ethel, and yet her memory drifted 
perpetually across his life. Now indeed it came 
like Niagara upon him. 

What right had he to let this soul go back into perdition 
without attempt to save it? She had been after all no 
worse a woman than he was a man. It was because she 
was a mother that she had ceased to be his mistress and 
became — alas, what had she not become? 

If he had done nothing yet for Ethel, could he not do 
something for the little daughter Claire? Did Valerien 
Pourgot still look after her? Was she still his adopted 
daughter, or was she only a model, to become? — alas, what 
might she too become? 

An excuse to return to Paris lay in the letter that he 
found when he called at the poste restante. This was an 
offer to purchase his “Dawn on the Canal” for the French 
nation. 

Little as he cared now for recognition, this indeed gave 
George a thrill of pleasure. Now he was hall-marked. 

Yes, he must leave Rome. He could come again some 
other time. The sun would still be shining, and the 
Vatican, the Sistine Chapel, the Forum — surely they could 
wait. 

He went to the Wagons-Lits, and next morning took the 
train for Paris. 

Back in Paris, he first of all paid his respects to Pourgot. 
Like himself, Pourgot was an International, and had a 
picture in the Luxembourg— and George after all had been 
his pupil. Seven years almost had passed since the inci- 

301 


3°2 


HEARTS AND FACES 


dent at Fontainebleau — surely it had been forgotten. Per- 
haps, indeed, Pourgot had never known. 

Claire, George found, was still in the Rue d’Assas, but 
Mother Labori was dead. Claire was quite grown up. She 
evidently had forgotten George, for when her guardian 
introduced him she spoke as to a stranger. Yet in the 
course of conversation, when she found he was the George 
Grange of the International, she became most friendly — 
praised his pictures which she claimed that she adored. 

She was a more vivacious Ethel. 

Of course he saw Claire only with her five-o’clock man- 
ners. Perhaps the girl he saw was not the girl that Pourgot 
knew. 

Seven more years added only a few grey hairs to Pourgot, 
but at eighteen, Claire was almost a woman — old enough to 
be self-willed and young enough not to hide it. The familiar 
life that Pourgot always allowed her accounted for much 
of this. She went with him everywhere as his adopted 
daughter. Pourgot sent her to a teacher of singing. Her 
young contralto filled the old studio with music — she was 
always singing, and Pourgot loved to hear her. If ever 
he had a hobby away from his art, it was that of old ballads. 
These Claire would sing to him over and over again, for 
she too was in love with melody. 

Pourgot had watched her rapid growth uneasily. She ma- 
tured at a tangent, and he wished he had been able to swing 
her earlier into his circle. Now he felt that she held her own, 
and there was only a memory to tie them. Would it last? 

When Mother Labori died he had good reason to despair. 
Claire’s awkward age had proved almost ungovernable. One 
day she had deliberately rubbed a wet palette against a 
valuable canvas, because he had scolded her for posing 
badly. At first she despised him because he kept his temper. 
Remorse proved her greatest punishment. She threw her- 
self with passionate tears at his feet. 

“You are too good to me,” she sobbed. “Why don’t 
you thrash me, as the clown thrashed his donkey that day 
at the circus?” 


ON THE TRAIL 


303 


This repentance preceded other devilry. In moments 
of irritation, Pourgot sometimes thought he had made a 
mistake in ever taking her into his studio. At the operatic 
class conducted by her singing master, she made friends 
whom Pourgot did not like, especially a certain Leonore, 
who had already sung at the Follies. Claire sometimes came 
home late from her singing lessons, and annoyed him by 
singing cheap tunes which put him out of temper. 

“Where did you pick that up?” he said angrily, one 
day after she had sung a vulgar music-hall ditty. 

“Only from Leonore,” said Claire, pouting, “she heard 
it at ” 

“I don’t care where she heard it. You must not sing it 
here.” 

“Why not?” replied Claire, flushing. 

“Because if any one else heard you sing it you would be 
misunderstood.” 

“How?” 

“Your position here.” 

Claire closed the piano with a snap, and Pourgot regretted 
having spoken. 

“The world is what it is,” she said, tossing her head. 
“I must learn something of it, if I have got to live in it.” 

“The world can do you no good,” said Pourgot. “When 
you sang that song your voice sounded so common, and yet 
when you care your voice can be so soft and beautiful. I 
never heard a sweeter at the Opera.” 

“Why the Opera?” said Claire viciously. “The theatre 
for me. I could make my fortune in London.” 

“Who talks to you of London?” cried Pourgot, 
alarmed. 

“Every one. Leonore — and every one.” 

For the first time Claire saw Maestro in a temper. He 
stamped up and down the studio like one possessed. 

“Maestro, Maestro,” she cried. “Why are you so angry? 
I will be good.” 

“It is you,” he cried. “You and your Leonore. I spit 
at London. It is a city of Jack the Rippers.” 


304 


HEARTS AND FACES 


Claire shrugged her shoulders. He was talking foolishly. 

Pourgot could say no more. His heart was too full to 
speak. He took up his palette and mechanically started 
work at the canvas that happened , to be fixed to his easel. 
Claire’s anger began to melt when she saw how aimlessly 
he put on paint. She was sorry for the pain she had caused 
him. Such a Parisian could not fail to find that Maestro 
had come to have more than a fatherly affection for her. 
The discovery half pleased, half annoyed her. She was 
a woman, and liked to be loved. But she was a woman 
and hated to be tied before she could sample other men. 
Gratitude for Pourgot’s kindness had little place in Claire’s 
thoughts. Its sweetness indeed almost cloyed. A touch 
of the world’s bitterness was needed to restore its proper 
flavour. 

“Perhaps I am jealous,” thought Pourgot, as he fum- 
bled with his palette. “Better let the bird have its free- 
dom.” 

“Well,” he said aloud, “we won’t discuss the subject 
any more just now. There’s no use in quarrelling, is 
there, little one? I meant only to warn you, for your 
good.” 

Claire answered by turning to the piano and to an old 
ballad, one of his favourites, singing with such sweetness 
that the tears fell down his cheeks. 

They were friends again — for nearly a week. 

Pourgot, to tell the truth, was expecting more than was 
his due. Paris was a city of pleasure and he was asking 
this vivacious Parisian to forgo the untasted sweets of the 
gay life she saw around her for the known monotony of his 
companionship. As a lover he hardly touched the hero 
mark, however excellent a father or even a husband he might 
make. Wherever she went she heard the mockery of the 
middle aged : the posters flung it at her, the comic journals, 
the actors at the Revues — all sang the unbridled song of 
Youth ! Youth ! Youth ! Marriage was a means by which 
the young girl escaped from her family restrictions. If 
there were none of these, why marry at all ? 


ON THE TRAIL 


305 


She could not flirt with Pourgot. He did not know how 
to make eyes, or whisper flatteries, or tenderly press her 
fingers. He could not even dance without making himself 
ridiculous. He was so used to her that he forgot to tell 
her twenty times a day that she was charming. Such inat- 
tention in the case of such a girl might well set all his plans 
agley. 

The vision of Claire grown up intensified the sting of 
George’s conscience. He realised that Ethel must be 
found. What must be done then depended on her state 
of mind and body. He did not love her, but he had a 
duty to her. The selfishness of these lost years must be 
retrieved. 

The private inquiry agent whom he had engaged to search 
for Ethel had little enough to go upon. So many thousands 
of her kind are sacrificed each year to Moloch. Jean Defrain 
had seen her once — some years ago — like himself, the worse 
for drink; he had heard she danced at a cabaret on the 
quais. 

George shuddered. 

From one to another he wandered, till he knew Paris as 
only the police can know it. Courage failed him when he 
came to that particular hell which had been the scene of 
his first adventure, so he left it to the last. But in the end 
he went there too. 

Seven years had passed, and yet it might have been 
seven days. 

The same half-lit, half-empty hall. 

One of the dancers came and sat beside him. 

“Beer ?” said the waiter. 

He nodded, and the waiter brought two glasses. 

As in a dream, he heard the same rough cockney accent 
that he heard seven years ago. 

“English, ain’t you ?” 

She still coughed whenever she spoke. 

She had the same peroxide hair, the same skin rather more 
corroded. The eyes were still more bleared. They had 
forgotten him. 


30 6 


HEARTS AND FACES 


“Get me out of here, there’s a friend. They’ve stolen 
my money. I want my fare back to London.” 

It was the same old trap. 

The waiter hovered nearer. 

“Buy me a cigarette.” 

George nodded. 

“Give me the money, quick.” 

They still charged five francs for the cigarettes. 

“Pay it,” she whispered over her glass. “Better that than 
be knifed.” 

He paid, and again the waiter disappeared. 

Mechanically the words came to his mouth. 

“What sort of place is this?” 

“White slavers,” she replied. “Can’t you help me 
out ?” 

George looked her in the face. 

“You asked me to do that seven years ago. I gave you 
forty francs.” 

“You did, did you? More fool you.” She laughed 
her coarse rough laugh. “Been here before, and come 
again? Well, I’m damned! Here, Jim,” she beckoned 
to the waiter. “Another beer. This is my drink, old 
boy.” 

But George slipped out. 

Whew! 

He had been a fool. 

Was Ethel worth as little pity ? 

“Perhaps she went back to London,” said the inquiry 
agent. “We have connexions there.” 

The search went on in London, but George remained in 
Paris. 

He worked all day. At night he went from one haunt 
to another. 

Paris is surely inexhaustible. 

If he did not come upon a trace of Ethel, he stumbled 
once or twice upon her husband, Wolseley Greville. Not 
once alone, but twice or thrice he saw the hateful face — each 
time more devilish — at cabarets of more than doubtful repu- 


ON THE TRAIL 


307 


tation. The face was unmistakable, and still more unmis- 
takable the limp. At each place Wolseley Greville seemed 
to move as one in authority. Yet his name did not appear 
in such as ventured on a programme. 

Most clearly he had business here in Paris. 

Ah! Perhaps that accounted for the absence of Ethel. 
She knew that he was here, and was evading him. 

But if Greville had his business, what was that busi- 
ness? What had been his life these last seven years? 
And what had been the end of those proceedings for 
divorce ? 

The inquiry agent was put upon the scent. 

Within a week a telegram came from London that Ethel 
had been seen. The letter that followed was non-committal, 
asked George to come over and make certain for himself 
of her identity, said that he need have no fear of Greville, 
indeed, that Scotland Yard was only waiting for the proper 
moment to put that unsavoury person where he ought 
to be. 

George remembered the incident of Greville in that 
haunt of bullies, the restaurant in Soho. He thought he 
understood. 

And now for Ethel. 

London was calling, and George answered to the call. 


CHAPTER XLIII 


A DANGEROUS GAME 

W HEN Wolseley Greville received a note from 
Jacobs & Jacobs, his solicitors, curtly inform- 
ing him that they declined to go on with his 
case against his wife, he had the shock of his 
life. Lawyers, according to his notion, would do anything 
they were paid to do; and as he had been prudent enough 
to confide to them nothing of his schemes for compromising 
with the co-respondents, he was stunned by this unexpected 
blow. 

At once he suspected them of having designs on his own 
purse and reputation, for by this time he was unable to 
impute to any one a loftier motive than he himself possessed. 
Had he been a lawyer with such a client as himself he 
would have reaped a harvest both out of the plaintitf and 
also out of the defence. 

After due reflection he resolved to play Brer Rabbit and 
be polite to such powerful enemies. Jacobs & Jacobs re- 
fused to give him any reasons for their conduct, or to 
deliver any documents containing information they had 
acquired on his behalf. Whatever they had learned they 
held for themselves. 

Still, they made no threats, and after a few weeks of 
abject fear Greville began to breathe again. 

In the meanwhile Ethel had fled, and he had at least no 
visible wife to interfere with further plans. He could 
forgive her virtue while she had money to invest for him, 
but when he had sucked her dry her place was certainly 
the street. 

Ethel must be penniless, but Greville had in his theatre 
a going concern which procured him certain profits and 
still more certain pleasures. Musical comedy with such a 

308 


A DANGEROUS GAME 


309 


chorus as he commanded was Pied Piper to the sons of 
luxury. The bread that he would cast upon the waters 
returned at times in tides of huge percentage. Suppose a 
chorus girl retired to virtuous marriage with a peer. What 
orgies of blackmail ! 

It was a dangerous game, but Greville was a skilful 
player. It mattered little that in time his private reputation 
stank. He had money and success. 

At last he met his match in the redoubtable Cissy Malone, 
afterwards Lady Chesterly. That estimable peeress had 
been trained in a hard school, fighting her way through 
poverty at first with virtue and economy, then with the 
flush of easier morals. Greville for the most part liked 
to catch his nestlings young. The future Lady Chesterly 
was an adept at concealing her age. She was a born come- 
dian and sang sufficiently in tune to suit his public. She 
was exceptionally pretty, and though for a time she affected 
to misunderstand his terms, that was only her way of 
making bargains. 

When at last she had her peer entangled, the mesalliance 
caused the usual tremendous flutter. 

The new Lady Chesterly was in her element. No one 
else dared to display such magnificence, and no one kept 
the tradesmen waiting longer for their money. She kept 
a grip of steel on her infatuated husband, diverting his 
expensive tastes so far as possible into her own pocket. 
What he bought for her was an investment. She trampled 
on the menials who expected perquisites, and the second- 
hand dealers who thronged to her back doors. The House 
of Chesterly was more magnificent than ever, but it was 
put upon a sound financial footing. 

During her brief career at Greville’s theatre she had 
scented out its secrets, an unsavoury mess. When, there- 
fore, that jewel, Greville, tried his old game on her, he 
received another shock. Diamond cut diamond with a 
vengeance ! It was he that was blackmailed. 

Just about this time the luck of his theatre began to 
change. After many years of careless fortune, two pieces 


3io 


HEARTS AND FACES 


in succession were put on, so imbecile that even the bevy 
of beauties failed to draw. Greville saw trouble ahead 
and knew that once his debts were known the sycophants 
would fly. 

He crossed more frequently to Paris, ostensibly to pick 
up talent for the company. 

In Paris, London always seemed less threatening. The 
Channel rolled between him and his creditors — and Lady 
Chesterly. There, taking courage, he plunged, on a still 
larger scale than he had dared before, into a dangerous 
but profitable business in which for some time he had already 
had a share: a group of cabarets so sinister in reputation 
that no wise man went to them with money that he meant 
to bring away. 

Where did all the girls come from? Surely some were 
drugged, thought the police spies, but were unable to show 
proof. 

If the girls had talent they appeared in time at Greville’s 
theatre in London. If they had none, they vanished, occa- 
sionally to be found at St. Lazare. 

Deep in this traffic of fair virgins, Wolseley Greville 
searched round carefully for likely victims, and just about 
the time that George returned to Paris, came upon the 
operatic class attended by Claire and her friend Leonore. 
Clear young voices, pretty faces, Parisian style. Some of 
them would just do for his chorus; it just depended upon 
their being adaptable. 

Leonore was the first he got acquainted with, and Leonore, 
who saw some money in the business for herself, introduced 
him quite discreetly — he was not an attractive man to look 
upon — to such of her friends as were not too particular, or 
were ingeniously blind, or could be trusted to forgive his 
face because of the prospects that he promised. 

Of the last-named Claire was one. She was ambition 
daintily incarnate. Her lovely voice, her sprightly manner, 
her insouciant charm should draw all London. So thought 
she, and so said he. Then too, as he found out, she was a 
foundling, half a model, lived alone with an artist — poufl 


A DANGEROUS GAME 


3ii 

she must be what he wanted her to be. Of course he never 
dreamed she was his own flesh and blood. 

Yet Claire was not so unsophisticated or so unfettered 
as he fancied. She had been warned of the under-world 
by faithful Mother Labori, there were few of the latest 
books she did not read, and the eloquence of Leonore could 
not at once persuade her that a man who looked so like a 
devil could be quite disinterested. 

And in her own wild way, she loved her guardian, wept 
to think she must part from him if she went to London 
and so must lose her only friend — she knew quite well that 
Leonore was just a parasite — must leave the dear old Studio, 
and never again perhaps revisit the Forest farm in summer, 
and Paris ! Could she not seek fame in Paris, and so escape 
the need to cross that dreadful Channel ? 

By accident she found that Greville had the manage- 
ment of theatres in Paris also. Would he not try her first at 
one of these ? London was such a long way off. 

Leonore suggested yes, but Greville knew it was too 
dangerous for him. English girls for the Paris houses, 
French for London. He did not want his victims to be too 
near home. 

Besides, once she was inside any of his cabarets, she 
would most surely understand. 

So he held out for London. 

His drugs were just as potent there. 

But first he had to promise Claire her price — the price 
of leaving her beloved studio and her dear Paris — five hun- 
dred francs a week, and she must travel with Leonore. 
Valerien Pourgot must not know. He was her guardian, 
and might have the right to stop her. 

In order to blind her Maestro to the projected flight, she 
had to pretend to have given up her waywardness. She 
posed without complaining. She kept good hours. She sang 
his favourite songs. Never was Pourgot so happy. 

Meanwhile she was packing secretly, planning the great 
adventure. Leonore was to be her companion, Greville at a 
reasonable distance. 


3 12 


HEARTS AND FACES 


She was to go to Cook’s, and there conspicuously buy a 
ticket for St. Petersburg. Pourgot when he discovered she 
was absent would of course think of London and would 
rush to Cook’s, who would remember her and put him on 
the wrong scent. 

She would need at least a week’s rehearsal, and no one 
must be allowed to interfere. Then when she had made 
her debut, and all London was at her feet, she would send 
him a triumphant telegram, and summon him to do her 
homage. Of course he would come. He would paint a 
new picture of her. She would have a poster made of 
it. She would come back to Paris with a splendid motor- 
car ; her hats would set the fashion ; all the girls at the class 
would tear their eyes out with envy. Oh, she would be so 
condescending ? 

Of course she would have a king in love with her, and 
she would have zebras or antelopes as well as the motor-car. 

Such were her dreams. 

Yet in her bosom, on the night she left the studio, she 
carried, and very often felt to see that it was easy to get 
hold of, a revolver ready loaded. 

That morning she had received the ultimatum. Greville 
had grown tired of her procrastinations. And so he 
wrote : 

“To-night, or not at all. I shall expect you at the Gare 
du Nord at nine o’clock. Here are five hundred francs, 
your first week’s salary. 

“W. G.” 

During the day, Claire made her last slow preparations. 
Leonore was to join her at the station. She had a thousand 
francs of her own, laid by from Pourgot’s generosity. At 
the time appointed she was at the Gare du Nord. 

Leonore was there. Greville slipped into their carriage 
at the last moment. Everything was perfectly arranged. 

The train swung out into the night. 

Claire, bubbling over with excitement, chattered without 
ceasing — a bird escaped from its cage. 


A DANGEROUS GAME 


3i3 


Leonore was more silent. 

The swaying and the rumble of the train at last had their 
effect. Claire also quieted. She was tired, almost 
dejected. 

When they were still an hour from Calais, Greville sug- 
gested supper. He had brought a basket, full of sandwiches, 
cold chicken and wine. 

“Before the sea- voyage ?” 

“Why not? It is always safest so. Any old traveller 
will tell you.” 

Claire had no appetite. The motion of the train affected 
her. 

And the wine — horrible ! 

Yet Leonore forced it on her. 

It was not till she had emptied her glass, and her head 
began to swim, that she remembered one of the white slave 
stories she had read, and suspected. 

When her two companions gripped each arm, and half- 
carried her on board into her cabin, she still had sense 
enough to watch them. 

This must have been no ordinary wine. 

Her limbs were heavy as lead. She could hardly keep 
her eyelids from closing. 

In the cabin Claire felt Leonore take her purse from 
her, and watched her strip her jewel box. 

Leonore and Greville were in league. He came into the 
cabin, and they laughed together as they pointed at her. 

“Where is her contract?” he asked. “We can’t let her 
keep that.” 

Leonore did not take long to find it. 

Claire tried to lift her hand up to her bosom. 

Impossible. 

The wine must have been drugged. 

There as she lay, before her senses had quite ebbed away 
from her, Claire realised at last what Wolseley Greville 
really was. 

He had lured her to a foreign land away from those who 
would protect her, and had her at his mercy. 


CHAPTER XLIV 


AT BAY 

I N planning the ruin of Claire, Wolseley Greville had 
made one fatal miscalculation — he had omitted to 
allow for the storm which kept them seven dreadful 
hours upon the English Channel. 

Hardly had they emerged from port when it swept upon 
them. The pounding of heavy seas and the violent pitch 
and toss of the ship rapidly prostrated the passengers, and 
Greville, who had meant to bide his time in the smoking- 
room and was fortifying himself with brandies and sodas, 
was so completely overcome that he lay like a trampled 
worm upon the floor, groaning and retching in such abject 
misery that Claire, had she been able or of a mind to see 
him, might almost have felt pity for him. 

Claire, however, was herself aroused from her drugged 
slumbers to the rude emotions of sea-sickness — fortunately 
for her, as this relieved her of much of the poison which was 
benumbing her. By the time the vessel had at last reached 
Dover Harbour she was once more in command of her 
senses, a little limp and dizzy, but not so miserably limp nor 
half so brain- racked as her two companions. Nature in 
their case had had full swing. 

As she lay, recovering consciousness, gripping the sides 
of her berth to prevent herself from being thrown out on 
the floor, Claire formed her plan of escape. She felt she 
was too weak still from the effects of the drug to break 
away at once. Besides, she had lost her purse and her 
jewels. Leonore must first disgorge these, but Leonore at 
present was a complete and hopeless wreck, incapable of 

314 


AT BAY 


315 


anything except of being sick. Claire must therefore wait a 
little, feign still to be under the drug’s influence, so that she 
could find where Leonore had hid the money. She might 
even have to let them bring her on to London. But there 
she could surely find an opportunity of getting even with 
them, or at least of giving them the slip. 

She felt in her bosom. The revolver was still there. 
Thank God! 

At last they were in smooth water. The stewards, who 
themselves had most of them succumbed to the unusual 
stress, reappeared among the bedraggled passengers and 
helped them to their feet and overcoats. Sympathetic porters 
from the shore supported to the waiting train the tottering 
steps of those who needed them. Customs, formalities were 
waived, and Claire found herself propped up in the corner 
of a first-class carriage, her eyes half closed, facing the 
pale, dejected features of Wolseley Greville. 

But where was Leonore ? 

Leonore on terra firma was still in the most violent pangs 
of her sea-sickness. The steward who had helped her off 
the ship suggested she should go to the hotel. She nodded 
assent, then fainted, to wake up with a blinding headache in 
a room of the Lord Warden. 

Ill luck this for Claire, for Leonore had still possession of 
Claire’s purse and jewels. 

The whistle blew and, with the rain slashing upon the 
carriage windows, the train set off for Charing Cross. 

Alarmed that they should be alone in the carriage, but still 
feigning semi-consciousness, Claire reviewed the situation. 
First of all she realised that England was still in the Middle 
Ages — this was a compartment, not a corridor carriage. It 
would be in vain for her to summon aid from other pas- 
sengers ; they could not help her if they would. Secondly, 
she had no money, thanks to Leonore. Thirdly, she was 
just as strong now as that blackguard opposite, still weak 
from his sea-sickness. Fourthly, she had her revolver. 
Perhaps he had one too. 

As she studied his livid, dissipated face, she wondered 


HEARTS AND FACES 


316 

what mad infatuation had possessed her to trust herself 
to such a man. Through years of vice he had become a 
very devil in appearance, and when to this was added the 
effect of their stormy passage, he looked more like a vam- 
pire than a human being. Little indeed did she suspect 
that this was her own father. A revulsion of feeling in 
favour of Pourgot flooded her whole soul. What folly had 
possessed her to leave so good a friend ! Now she would 
put her whole life at his disposition if ever she escaped 
from this ghastly trap. 

As the train rolled on, Greville gradually pulled his 
scattered thoughts together. Where the devil was Leonore ? 
What had become of the money and the jewels? How 
was he to get Claire unsuspected to his flat? How far 
was she still under the influence of that drug? Would she 
be able to put up a fight, make a scene? It was most 
devilish awkward. Perhaps it was as well there had been 
a storm. The railway porters would think her dazed appear- 
ance was the effect of sickness. Good God! What a 
passage! Where was that flask of brandy? Hell! Oh, 
there it was ! 

His throat burned with the gulp he took, but it whipped 
his heart up and he warmed again to life. 

Life in his case meant further villainy. He felt in his 
pocket for the tiny bottle which he carried for such emer- 
gencies. It was the safest and most effective drug he knew. 

Claire was a good-looking girl anyway, and it was just 
as well that Leonore was out of the way. 

Rain still slashed upon the windows. It was a melan- 
choly day. 

There were blinds. He had better pull them down. 

Claire felt that the time had come for action. They must 
still be half an hour from Charing Cross. He was looking 
at her in a way that surely meant her mischief. 

She saw him rise and unsteadily shut out the light. 

The carriage swayed at a curve in the track and he was 
overbalanced — fell back panting. 

She herself thrilled with excitement. As she felt for 


AT BAY 


3i7 

her weapon in her bosom she realised the furious beating 
of her heart. 

He leaned across to put his hand upon her shoulder. 
Down she brushed it, and held him covered with her re- 
volver. 

“Don’t ! Don’t !” He shrank back, holding his hands out 
and hiding his face in the cushion. 

“Pull up the blinds,” she said sharply. She was all nerves, 
and exultant. 

He tried to rise, but his knees were knocking together 
and he fell back miserably in the corner, waving his hands 
and moaning: 

“Don’t! Don’t!” 

“My God!” she said. “What a cur!” 

Wondering whether she should shoot or not, she saw the 
bottle sticking out of his waistcoat pocket. She had noticed 
his hand go there and feel something. This was evidently 
his weapon — no doubt another drug. 

Snatching it from him, she opened the window, keeping 
him covered all the time, and threw it out on the track. 

“That may save some other poor girl from your devilry,” 
she said. “Now give me back my contract. I know you 
have it in your inside coat pocket. I saw you get it from 
Leonore.” 

He gave it up reluctantly, knowing that this was his 
last hold on her. Still it was that, or his own life. The 
little fury meant business this time and no mistake. Who 
the devil would have thought she would have carried a 
revolver ? 

“Now, remember,” she said, as the train hurried through 
London’s suburbs, “I have my revolver in my coat pocket 
here pointed at you. You let me out of the carriage first, 
without moving from your seat, and if you try to follow 
me from the station I shall shoot you without mercy.” 

All he could do was to sit back in his corner and grind 
his teeth with disappointed rage. 


CHAPTER XLV 


"dark and true and tender” 

G EORGE in London learned the general history of 
Greville’s later record, but at the moment did 
not hear of this last villainous attempt. He was 
on the track of Ethel, not of Claire. 

It seemed, indeed, as if he had come on a false alarm. 
Ethel had disappeared again in the great whirlpool. 

How different was the London that he came to from 
the London he had left. He was an established name now 
in the world of art, not fighting for a place among the 
portrait painters. The giants of the International were 
glad to welcome him — yet they were not friends. He 
understood at last that the only possible friends are the 
friends of youth. 

"What is fame?” was the discussion one day at the lunch- 
eon table of the Chelsea Arts Club. 

"Fame?” said Shanks, now an A.R.A. "Fame is reached 
when you get a prepaid telegram from the Daily Mcdl, 
asking for your opinion on some problem of the day. Don’t 
you think so, Grange?” 

"Fame is reached,” said George, "when you are a middle- 
aged machine for painting celebrated pictures.” 

Sometimes indeed George warmed a little to a brother 
Scot. The familiar Northern accent brought back to his 
memory that wonderful half-year he had spent with Reid, 
and the old walks, and the east winds, and the granite 
pavements, which after all he loved. Blackguard that place 
as he might, Aberdeen was still very dear to his hidden 
heart. 

How imperishable is the impress made by the world on 
318 


“DARK AND TRUE AND TENDER” 


319 


youth! The flush of adolescence passes, and we grow 
hard and old. Bitter in our disillusionment, we come at 
last back to our land of childhood, terrible perhaps with 
Ogres, but still a magic place and Wonderland. The streets 
we trod at four years old are peopled with our dream- 
friends. The dream may be forgotten or obscure, but still 
the friendship lives, softening the faces of those who too 
have stepped the selfsame stones and known maybe the 
selfsame dreams. 

Reid — why did Reid not answer his letters ? George had 
written twice to tell him of the triumph of his picture — 
bought for the French Nation, hung in the Luxembourg. 

Gossip casually gave the reason. Reid had died, just 
a day or two before George himself had returned to Lon- 
don. 

Poor old Reid ! 

George’s eyes filled with tears, and tears too filled his 
heart. 

Then came a letter which had followed leisurely from 
Paris. It must have been the last that Reid had penned. 

“Dear Geordie, 

“Here’s a hand, my trusty friend, an’ gie’s a hand 
o’ thine. Well done, sonny, well done! I knew ye had 
it in you. To hell with Royal portraits now! I say it 
that am no anarchist, but like old Samuel Johnson have 
no damned use for patrons. The world can come to you 
now — ye’ve got no call any more to lick the boots of a lord. 

“I saw one of your paintings at Glasgow last year, and 
I knew ye would come into your own. 

“Man, I wish ye were here to see the sunsets from my 
window — ye ken I’m bedridden whiles — the old complaint, 
rheumatic gout with a dash of sciatica and a sprinkling of 
pleurisy touched with pneumonia, not to mention the bron- 
chitis that ye remember always took me when I got a 
chill on the liver. Ah, but it’s the heartache that’s the 
worst of all, the feeling that the beauty of the world’s 
all slipping away — and will then heaven be half so fair? 

“It’s got to come, I suppose, and sure just now it would 
be some relief — a sleep that would not be an uneasy slum- 


320 


HEARTS AND FACES 


ber, quiet, serene, no more pain. Ah! but the beauty of 
the world is surely worth the pain — the tenderness of 
dawn, the blaze of day, the cool and luminous eve, then 
deep, blue night. 

“Last night the doctor told me I had just a few weeks 
more to see it in. Man, I’m thinking he meant days — 
it’s just his way of putting it. Ye mind thon Browser 
that was a medical when ye were still at King’s, and had 
his collarbone broke? Well, he’s my executioner, God bless 
him. 

“If it must come so soon, why should I sleep at all? 
There’s sleep enough to come. Prop up the pillows then, 
facing the slip of window. Watch the silver dusk shimmer 
and brighten into day. And then the flicker of sunlight — 
and, oh God ! how wonderful it all is ! 

“I have always painted the light too grey. 

“Ye can’t paint light too light, sonny. 

“If I could only live my life again ! 

“Well, well, good-bye, and God be with you, for auld 
lang syne. 


“Nathaniel Reid.” 


CHAPTER XLVI 


y 


RESCUE 


P OOR old Reid! 

Thinking of his old Scots friend, George went 
back over the footsteps of his former life, and 
being on the lookout in any case for a place to 
paint, went to see the studio once occupied by Ravin. 

It was to let. George had the boards of the floor taken 
up, removed the fungi, and rearranged the room to suit his 
own ideas. 

Ravin would not have recognised his former den in 
this luxurious workshop. Indeed it was unique in Chel- 
sea. A cork carpet of old-gold shade covered the floor, 
and the drab distemper was replaced by a cream silk-fibre 
paper. George was sick of the low in tone. Now he wanted 
light. 

Ravin never reappeared, but at times George thought he 
recognised his tumble-down servant Peter slinking past at 
nights. Peter did not speak to him, so perhaps it was some 
one else. 

Yet it was the very Peter who, with dog-like fidelity, 
was watching for the one man who had been kind to him, 
and had picked him from the gutter. George he hated as he 
hated every “toff,” and so postponed his begging visit till 
every other source has failed. 

One night the artist was returning to his studio some- 
what late after a concert, to fetch a photograph of his 
Luxembourg picture. Some illustrated paper wanted it 
at once. He had forgotten to post it before he left, and 
wished to have it off his mind before he went home to the 

321 


322 


HEARTS AND FACES 


rooms where he slept. As he entered the street, he heard 
a whistle from the further pavement. 

“That you, gov’nor?” said the well-known voice, and 
Peter himself shuffled across. “Ain’t forgot me, gov’nor? 
Got a match?” 

The match was used to light the fag-end of a cigar which 
George remembered to have thrown away. 

“Parley-voo fronsey?” 

“Oui, oui,” replied George with the utmost gravity. 

“That’s wot she said,” mumbled Peter, scratching his 
head. Then he brightened up. “But she flung ’er arms 
round me neck, gov’nor. Gawd’s truth, she did.” 

“Who did?” 

“Wy, that Frenchey — wot I met in the Pawk. Said she 
wanted to meet you ?” 

“Very kind of her,” replied George, wondering what it 
was all about. 

“Oh, she’s aw right. She’s an abduction. Say, gov’nor, 
you’re a toff, ain’t you — got plenty money?” 

“Why are you hard up?” 

“Me? No freeborn British subjick, that’s wot I am. 
But it’s this Frenchy demmy-swell. You can ’elp ’er, gov- 
’nor. She knows you !” 

“Knows me?” 

“Yes, true’s luck! I meet ’er in the Pawk, a-sleepin’ 
on my patch, my patch, an’ me a freeborn British subjick. 
'Git out,’ says I, polite like. Well, she jab- jab- jabbered 
just like Moossoo Ravin. ‘Parley-voo?’ says I. ‘We, we,’ 
says she, same’s you, but she flings ’er arms round me 
neck. Never so surprised in me life. Got another fag, 
gov’nor ?” 

The production of a whole cigar brought sunrise to his 
face. Peter bit it in half, pocketed the larger section for 
another day, and puffed at the remainder in silent bliss. 

“Hurry up,” said George. “I can’t stand here all 
night.” 

“Well, as I was a-sayin’, she jab-jab- jabbered. All I 
catch of wot she says is the words ‘abduction’ and ‘artist’ 


RESCUE 


323 


‘Artist be blowed,’ says I. ‘I ain’t no artist. But I knows 
’em, plenty of ’em. Ever ’eard of Moossoo Ravin?’ No 
go. ‘Ever ’eard of Mr. George Grange’ — that’s you, gov’nor. 
‘We, we,’ says she, an’ bobs ’er ’ead up an’ down an’ flings 
’er arms round me neck again. Well, I guessed she meant 
it for you.” 

Who could it be? Not Ethel, she was not French. Was 
it some model he had used in Paris, now stranded in 
London ? 

“Where is she now?” 

“In the studio,” said Peter, shuffling. 

“What!” 

“That’s wot I’m a-sayin’,” answered Peter, as if warding 
off a blow. “In the studio, you bein’ ’er friend. Good 
evenin’, gov’nor. Adoo.” 

Before George could recover from his astonishment Peter 
was round the corner. 

Here was a pretty situation! An unknown French girl 
in his studio at this time of night, who was in the habit of 
flinging her arms round people’s necks, and who said she 
knew him. 

The lamp was lit — old Peter knew his ground — but there 
was no sign of any inmate. 

“A thief!” thought George, and wondered what she 
could find to steal. 

Ah, there she was, lying on the floor in the recess in front 
of the fire, fast asleep. The fire was lit too. Poor girl, 
how tired she must have been ! The recess was only part 
of the working room now, and in the whole of this the 
furniture comprised just one stool besides the easels and 
canvases and a cabinet of drawers in which he kept his 
sketches and papers. 

Lighting a candle, he examined her face. 

Claire ! 

But how pale! 

It would be a shame to disturb her now, and he could 
not leave her alone. He would wait and watch. 

It was two o’clock before she stirred. George had kept 


3 2 4 


HEARTS AND FACES 


himself awake by sketching her as she lay there by the 
fire. When she moved he accidentally knocked over his 
stool and she was wakened too. In a moment she had 
sprung to her feet and was facing him. 

“Monsieur Grange, you remember me?” she said eagerly 
in French. 

“I met you at the studio of Valerien Pourgot.” 

“I am his — yes, his daughter. You must wonder at this 
strange intrusion. I could not make that old man under- 
stand. I thought he went to fetch you, but I was so tired, 
I fell asleep. I have walked your streets two nights now 
and I am not used to it — I have run away.” 

“From your father?” 

“Yes — no — yes — no ” She burst into tears. 

“Confound it all,” thought George, “this is going to be a 
nuisance.” 

After a few minutes she grew calm enough to speak. 

“It was all through Monsieur Greville,” she began. 

“Greville?” he interrupted. “Wolseley Greville? Does 
he know you are here?” 

He looked at her suspiciously. 

“No — no, I am no friend of his. Oh, how I hate him. 
He is my enemy. He tried to — he is — oh, I could kill him ! 
I did try,” she added, suddenly laughing. “Look!” 

She took out a revolver from her bosom. 

“He was a coward,” she said. 

“I still don’t understand,” said George. “But for the sake 
of old times, I will do anything you like.” 

“Old times?” 

“Yes,” he said. “I can never forget.” 

He went over to the cabinet and pulled out a drawer. 
From this he took a sheet of Michalet paper on which was 
a charcoal drawing. 

“Why, yes,” she said. “That was my pose at Colarossi’s 
when Maestro first saw me. So you were there too?” 

“Do you recollect one day in summer, seven years ago, 
when you were still a little girl, and Monsieur Pourgot was 
painting you in the Forest of Fontainebleau?” 


RESCUE 


325 

“Yes, and a woman came and frightened me — a bad 
woman.” 

“She was your mother.” 

“My mother? I do not believe you. I had another 
mother.” 

“Yet it is true.” 

“Then who is my father ?” 

George was about to answer when suddenly a sickening 
thought choked him. 

“Never mind these things,” he said. “Enough that I 
know. I will help you because I knew your mother, and 
because I respect Monsieur Pourgot.” 

She bowed. 

“I will tell you my story,” she said. “I was very cruel 
to Maestro, very wilful, and I believed that this villainous 
Monsieur Greville had obtained for me a position in an 
English theatre. So I ran away from Maestro and crossed 
with Monsieur Greville in the boat. Then — on the steamer 
— and in the train — I understood what he really wanted, 
but ” 

She smiled significantly at the weapon. 

“At Charing Cross I escaped from him. I could not 
telegraph to Maestro. I had no money; and, even if I 
had, I would have been afraid he would never forgive me, 
and I am proud. So I walked and walked and starved till 
that old man gave me a crust of bread and brought me here. 
That is all.” 

George sighed with relief. 

“Then that is easily mended,” he said. “But it is late 
now. You cannot go to an hotel. My studio here is still 
at your service, though it is hardly fit for you. I sleep 
elsewhere. There is no bed, but we can rig up some- 
thing, and to-morrow we can set it all right. Trust to 
me.” 

Then stepping across the room, 

“Here is a kind of bed that I myself have used when I 
wanted to start work early.” 

He took down a six-foot canvas that was leaning face 


326 HEARTS AND FACES 

to the wall and laid it upwards on the floor, making a pillow 
of his overcoat. 

“But it is a painting,” she said. “Did you sleep on 
that?” 

“Not this one,” he said, “tut it is all the same. The 
paint is dry and the picture is one which I shall never sell. 
Now, I shall write a note which will explain everything to 
the caretaker in case she should come in. Till to-morrow 
then. Good night.” 

“Ah, Monsieur Grange, you are so good. Au revoir.” 

Sleep was utterly routed by such an experience. George 
again found himself pacing alone at night along the Embank- 
ment as he had paced it once before. 

How curious the coincidence, and yet how different! 
Ethel had driven him out on that sleepless night, and now 
after many years, it was her child. That child had come 
unasked at midnight to the very same studio in Chelsea 
as the mother had done — say sixteen years before — true, on 
a different errand, and to beg the hospitality of another 
painter. Was this life simply an arabesque of circles, twin- 
ing and intertwining on the walls of Kismet? 

Was Ethel dead? If so, her spirit still might haunt that 
staircase, stepping down from the gallery to the studio 
below. Perhaps it was her spirit that had guided the foot- 
steps of her child to a safe hermitage. No, not a spirit 
exactly, but the very earthly, very muddy Peter, who knew 
the trick of the latch. The earthly string of accidents was 
all so naturally connected that no spiritual guidance was 
required; yet surely there was an echo of these accidents 
in heaven. 

Poor Ethel ! What if it had been she who had come for 
refuge, not her daughter. Would he have given it without 
question, obliterating the terrible suspicion of the last years, 
or would he have been a cruel judge? 

Not a judge, good God! Who was he to set himself 
above all other men, above a woman, remembering his 
own complicity in the casual life? Not a judge, though the 
bond between them was for ever broken. Surely he could 


RESCUE 327 

have given her refuge for a night, and just as now he would 
be pacing the Embankment. 

Fate, at any rate, had done this — it had given him the 
chance to make some small amends for the wrong he might 
have done to Ethel. If he had given the mother a lift along 
the downward path, he was now helping up the daughter. 
She looked upon him almost as her saviour. 

If Ethel knew, would this not make her happy? 

As for Claire, neither could she sleep, at least at first. 
She was too excited at her relief from the terror of the 
last few days. Then, as she prepared to settle down, she 
realised the curious nature of the bed that George had 
suggested. 

Pushing the canvas to the light, she examined the paint- 
ing. It seemed to be a picture that she knew. Yes, it 
recalled that picture by Titian of which Maestro had a 
reproduction — the Sacred and Profane Love — only it was 
different, modern. 

“How beautiful the model must have been,” she thought. 
“It would be a shame to sleep upon it.” 

And so when George came in at eight o’clock next morn- 
ing, he found Claire still asleep upon the floor. 


CHAPTER XLVII 


FORGIVEN 


D O you mean to say you came over from Paris with 
no money?” George asked, as they sat at break- 
fast. 

“Oh no, I had more than one thousand five 
hundred francs, but that infamous monster Leonore stole 
my purse and jewels so that Mr. Greville should have a hold 
on me.” 

“Well, I think we’d better wire to Monsieur Pourgot to 
fetch you back. He would come, wouldn’t he?” 

Claire shook her head. 

“Not even if you asked?” 

Her blush settled the telegram. Pourgot on his side did 
not wait. At eight o’clock that evening a hansom drove 
up to the door with the excited Maestro, slippered and hat- 
less and radiant. 

“Escaped from Waterloo, and still running,” said cabby 
to a brother of the whip. “Three cheers for froggy! 
Hooray !” 

What a meeting that was ! Kisses, tears and kisses again. 
Poor George began to feel a little out of it. At last he 
edged in with the suggestion that Monsieur Pourgot was 
probably hungry. 

“Now I think of it,” said the latter, “I am. Nothing 
to eat since yesterday. Let us eat a young baby in your 
English fashion.” 

They all laughed, Claire still more when she realised 
Maestro’s appetite. From her recent experience in crossing 
the Channel, she knew the symptoms. The restaurant 
waiter stood at gaze before a customer who demolished a 
dozen dishes of hors-d'oeuvre at one fell swoop. Still more 

328 


FORGIVEN 


329 


so when the same customer took two helpings each of every 
course, and monopolised the fruit in the establishment. The 
coffee was drunk in the presence of the proprietor, his wife, 
his daughter, his son-in-law, and half a dozen neighbours 
who came to look on. Claire and George maliciously asked 
questions about the Cannibal Islands. 

At last the great little man sighed and lay back in his 
chair, puffing a huge cigar. 

“After all, I like London,” he said. “We came from 
the station like a racehorse and did not kill anybody. Amaz- 
ing !” 

“That’s nothing,” said George. “If only you will be my 
guest for a week or two, I will show you the most wonderful 
city in the world, for colour, for life, for interest.” 

“But you have no room,” said Claire. 

“We’ll find a room somewhere,” said George. “Only 
on one condition, that Monsieur Pourgot is my guest.” 

After a mild protest, Pourgot consented. Rooms were 
engaged at a neighbouring hotel, and George parted from 
his friends on the understanding that they should all go 
sight-seeing together for a week. 

Those were happy days for Claire. Maestro had for- 
given her. Maestro loved her just the same as before, and 
she — well she 

London can be so beautiful when the sun shines, and, as 
it happened, those were jolly days and sunny and clear in 
spite of February winds. Claire went about half afraid 
that she would meet Wolseley Greville, half glad that she 
would face him on the arm of Maestro. 

George was fascinated in the task of disentangling the 
memory of Ethel from Claire’s unconscious manner. Claire 
was dark and so much more French. She must have car- 
ried on the features of her grandfather. And yet there were 
many points of touch — voice inflections, the lift of her chin 
when she asked a question, the inclination of her head 
when she was listening. When she walked, her figure was 
bent slightly forward, just like Ethel’s. In character too 
there was a likeness. Claire was a child of pleasure, just 


330 


HEARTS AND FACES 


as Ethel had been, with the difference that Claire had never 
been thwarted. She too hated to be alone, but long years 
of petting made her not sacrifice herself for friends but 
demand the right of some one’s attendance. She too had 
her religious mood, but her knowledge of music made her 
more discriminate. When George took her to a service of 
plain song, she was in raptures. It was of course natural 
with Pourgot’s training, that she should be fond of pictures, 
but this too might have been a bond inherited. 

Poor Ethel! What had become of her now? Perhaps 
she was in the gutter, perhaps in unhappy splendour. Death 
perhaps had laid cool hand on that hot heart. Better 
if it were so. How terrible for Claire if she should ever 
meet her mother, and know her father! George had told 
Pourgot of his slip of the tongue, and they were forced to 
throw barricades across her curiosity. Gaieties distracted 
her most easily, and the week slipped into a fortnight, the 
fortnight into a month. 

Almost every night and many afternoons they went to 
concerts, Claire and Pourgot delighted to find that London 
could command such music. When they knew that George 
was Scotch, they were ravenous for Northern ballads. This 
opened up a new world for all three. George had hitherto 
been familiar only with the ordinary Scottish songs. Now 
he learned the exquisite Northern melodies that musical 
enthusiasts had in later days unearthed. When they came 
in tired from shopping or sight-seeing, Claire, who was 
learning English with the prettiest of accents, would sing 
Turn Ye to Me or Colin's Cattle or Lady Anne BothwelVs 
Lullaby so sweetly that her accent only added charm. If 
Mary Stuart had only had such songs to sing instead of the 
ballads of Provence, and sung them in such a way, she 
could have won the heart of the dourest Highland Chief, 
for ever and for ever. 

Shopping was a pleasure that grew. George had told 
Pourgot that for the sake of her mother and old times he 
wished to let Claire have her will, just for this holiday — he 
would pay the piper. He certainly had the money, for his 


FORGIVEN 


33i 


pictures now commanded big prices, and his expenses were 
small. The men and women of Society whom he casually 
met again thought he was down in the world because he no 
longer painted portraits for the Academy, and therefore 
spared him the cost of their company. 

Fortunately for George’s purse, Claire decided that it 
suited her role of penitent to affect an interesting ill-health. 
She said she was tired after an hour of Bond Street, and as 
she never made decisions under forty minutes, and pre- 
ferred artistic pewter to a necklace of pearls, the total 
barely reached three figures. Needless to say, she was 
delighted with such a cavalier as George, and had he cared 
to play the flirt Pourgot might have gone back to Paris as 
Anglophobe as ever. 

George had left them to themselves one afternoon, and 
was sipping tea at the Club when a painter whom he much 
respected entered the room. 

“Ah, tea and buttered toast !” said the latter. “Excellent 
idea. Permit me to join you.” 

“Are you in town again?” said George. “I thought you 
had retired for ever to the country.” 

“So I have, but I am come to market with my annual 
cow. Also to look about me. By the way, I saw you 
yesterday with an exceedingly pretty girl on your arm. 
May I congratulate you?” 

“No, no,” said George. “I’m not a marrying man.” 

“No cows for you, eh ?” 

“I don’t quite catch what you mean.” 

“Oh, it’s just my way of putting it — the little joke be- 
tween my wife and myself. You see the only kind of 
picture that I ever sell must have some cattle in it ” 

“Do you mean to say that those others — that Woman 
in Twilight and the Fishermen ” 

“Done for my own pleasure, and of course my best, but 
a married man must think of other things as well. For- 
tunately we have no children, otherwise I should paint 
nothing but cows all my life. Again let me congratulate 
you.” 


CHAPTER XLVIII 


A CORNER IN SOHO 

T HREE girls from the neighbouring laundry, very 
dark, very voluble and very French, all the neater 
because they wore no hats, tripped along the 
narrow street. A barrel-organ broke out round 
the corner, and the middle girl was still dancing when they 
passed out of sight. The distance was dotted at intervals 
with incandescent lamps, evidently meant to light up the 
pavements, but revealing only as much of the flagstones as 
philosophers reveal of the human heart. 

Ten paces from the brightest of these luminous futilities 
was the entrance to a restaurant. A screen shut off the 
lower part of the window, but there were no blinds. On 
the one side were private houses, on the other, in the direc- 
tion of a larger thoroughfare, were shops — an epicerie, a 
news-agent, and a tobacconist. 

Soho has many restaurants, each with its peculiar smells, 
customers and waiters, but this one was peculiarly peculiar, 
for it displayed no bill of fare. Perhaps it was but a coffee- 
house? Yes, that was it — the lettering inside the door was 
Arabic. 

The customers seemed mostly to be men, although at 
times a vision, composed of a waist, of flounces, and of 
vermilion lips swept over the threshold. Men would loiter 
near the entrance for two or three minutes, apparently 
in the profoundest meditation; then, as they sauntered 
near, would suddenly step inside. On the other hand, 
those who came out showed no such hesitation. It seemed 
almost as if they did not care to be connected with the 

332 


A CORNER IN SOHO 


333 

place, for hats were pressed on eyes and coats were muffled 
over chins. 

At one moment indeed this entrance lost its rather quar- 
antined appearance. Round the corner, where the barrel 
organ had been so gay, came the sound of voices, raucous, 
but evidently those of women, as if in altercation. Then 
up the street sped the harbingers of the police, little street 
boys running swiftly. The man in blue appeared, no, two 
of him, each tightly grasping the wrist of an indignant 
beauty. It was not at the officers that this fury was directed. 
Beauty had nails for other faces, jealous faces, faces thick 
with powder, for two fair daughters of Aphrodite had 
come to loggerheads in defiance of law and order. A crowd 
of interested neighbours hung on the ridiculously high heels 
of the captives, laughing and egging on the abuse so pi- 
quantly delivered. 

It was but natural that the coffiee-sippers should curiously 
throng the door. The women paused for a moment from 
their fury as they passed, and shouted out their explanations. 
The heavy Frenchman in front shrugged his shoulders and 
pulled out his empty pockets. 

“Come along !” said one of the policemen firmly, and the 
procession of abuse proceeded. 

The crowd had passed, but the heavy Frenchman waited 
at the entrance as if in doubt. Another joined him, 
presumably the patron , for he wore a sort of Turkish 
dress. 

“What was it?” 

“Blanche and Marie fighting again,” growled the heavy 
man. “Want me to go bail for them. Curse women!” 

“Better come in,” said the other. “It’s cold.” 

The two figures disappeared. 

Again the street was desolate, then again a passer-by. 
This was a man who wore a wide-awake hat and an over- 
coat trimmed with astrachan. He covered the ground at 
a good pace, in spite of an unmistakable limp. Unlike the 
most of those who had preceded him, he plunged straight 
into the coffee-house. 


334 


HEARTS AND FACES 


Hardly had he disappeared when another figure came 
round from the same corner, almost running. This time 
it was a woman. She hurried on with her head forward, 
peering up the street, and seemed surprised that no one 
was in front of her. The light from the restaurant caught 
her eye — then she looked back at the dingy shops. Some 
doubt seemed to fetter her, for she went back and forward. 
At last she crossed the street and stood within the shadow 
of a deep portal. 

Again the street was silent, again the lamps pricked the 
black space between the houses. The shops were shut, 
and only the light of the restaurant remained. 

Then at last a policeman. The watcher pulled her gloves, 
as if she were just leaving the house that sheltered her. 
As she did so, something gleaming fell to the ground. With 
a stifled cry she picked this up and pushed it into her muff. 
The officer, however, did not notice her, walking with 
grotesque swagger into the mysterious entrance. 

It was as when one pokes a stick into an ant heap. Within 
two minutes a swarm of men had stepped into the street, 
half walking, half running round the corner. 

The watcher never stirred. 

Again the officer appeared, this time with the heavy man, 
who counted as he walked some money in his hand. No 
doubt this was the bail for Marie and for Blanche. 

Ten minutes more. 

Then at the same moment two figures came into the 
street, one out of the restaurant, the other from round the 
corner. It was the former that the watcher saw. He was 
the man with the astrachan coat. He stepped out quickly, 
but still limping, up the street. 

“At last !” the watcher whispered. 

She had followed him as far as the first lamp-post, and 
had commenced to run, when suddenly she found herself 
caught round the waist. 

“Not so fast, fair lady of the peroxide hair,” said a 
drawling, tantalising voice underneath a dark moustache. 
“There are other pebbles on the beach.” 


A CORNER IN SOHO 335 

“Let me go,” she panted, struggling to escape. “Let me 
go!” 

“Nay, nay. It is for thee, for thee, my beauteous fair, 
that thy Philostrate’s heart is breaking.” 

“You cursed fool!” 

Her eyes were straining after the retreating figure. Then 
she turned on her tormentor, snatching something from her 
muff. 

“Let me go, or I’ll knife you !” 

Her arm was up to strike and the something gleamed 
again. 

Philostrate fled at the rate of ten yards a second. 

Sobbing with vexation at the delay, the woman hurried 
on in pursuit of her first quarry, but the street once more 
was desolate and nothing could be seen in the impenetrable 
darkness. 


CHAPTER XLIX 


IN THE PROMENADE 

A LTHOUGH Pourgot quickly reconciled himself to 
England and declared to George that he had en- 
tirely misjudged an admirable nation, he could 
not conceal his nervous fear lest Greville should 
again disturb the atmosphere of happiness. Too well he 
remembered Claire’s short previous repentance and how 
she had deceived him. It was impossible to tell from her 
present attitude of hate how much influence that blackguard 
really had upon her, and his hints that it was time for them 
to return to Paris grew more insistent every day. The 
young minx, however, knew that she was having a good 
time, and put off the journey time and again on the plea 
that she did not feel quite well enough to travel. 

One evening, however, the headache was not feigned and 
the two men went out alone. George had discovered that 
the balcony of one of the better music halls enabled one to 
see in the ballet the loveliest play of colour, thrown out by 
the lighting from the wings. Various colours were thrown 
upon the dancers and, to an onlooker from the side seats 
close to the proscenium, the interplay of light and shadow 
as the figures moved across the floor suggested Fairyland. 
Under a green light they were violet shadows, and so on — 
always complementary. 

The colour, the rhythm and the movement of the ballet 
have a special charm for the artist, never more so than at 
this particular hall. For here the sense is tickled by no 
gaudy glitter, but by tender harmonies and delicate sug- 
gestions. 

“Marvellous, marvellous !” Pourgot kept saying. 

336 


IN THE PROMENADE 


337 


The ballet ended and Pourgot was memorising this kalei- 
doscope, when he noticed his companion start. Following 
his look, he saw a woman leaning on the railing of the 
promenade, over-rouged, over-dressed, repulsive. 

“You know her?” 

George turned, his heart throbbing. It was Ethel. 

“I think so,” he said. Gripping Pourgot’s wrist, he con- 
tinued. “You also are concerned. Do you know who that 
woman is? It is the mother of Claire.” 

“Does she know of us?” said the Frenchman, turning 
pale. “I will leave for Paris to-morrow morning. Claire 
must not know. I will not give her up to any one.” 

“No fear of that.” 

“What are you going to do ?” 

“I must speak to her, if only for the sake of old times. 
Do you remember one day in the Forest of Fontainebleau, 
years ago, when you were painting? She came unexpectedly 
and frightened the child. I was with her then. She was 
— my model — at Marlotte. It was quite by chance that we 
came upon your picture. Poor Ethel — that is her name — 
was much affected, and went to Paris next day. I have 
never seen her since. But it is she.” 

“That the mother of my Claire!” 

“I must speak to her. Come.” 

Pourgot followed in unwilling curiosity. 

“Don’t tell her,” he whispered, “that Claire is in Lon- 
don. She might wish to see my darling, and that must 
not be.” 

They came up behind her and George tapped her on the 
arm. She turned round smiling, only to shudder when she 
recognised him. 

“Get me a drink,” she said, sinking into a seat. “Waiter, 
hurry up. This is an old friend.” 

How coarse her voice now, and how terrible the stamp 
of vice! 

“Well, well,” she continued. “Never thought I should 
ever see you again — least of all here.” 

“Why did you run away that day?” 


33§ 


HEARTS AND FACES 


“Don’t let’s talk of that. Here’s to luck!” 

She was already half tipsy, and the waiter nodded 
warning. 

“Why did you leave me ?” George repeated. 

She steadied herself, gripping the seat. 

“Why, to kill that blackguard, Wolseley, of course.” 

“And you failed ?” 

Ethel did not answer at first. She reached out a shaking 
hand, then drew it back. 

“He’s a devil!” she said hoarsely. “He always escapes 
me.” Then, with a sudden change of mood, almost softly, 
“Where’s the child now ? She was a model, wasn’t she ?” 

“She was the model of my friend here — Valerien Pour- 
got — don’t you remember ?” 

“No,” she said. “I can’t keep faces now.” 

“My friend,” said George, his voice trembling as he 
watched her, “came to London on a very sad errand. For 
many years he had taken care of this child as if she had 
been his own daughter. But somehow or other Claire got 
into bad company and was enticed away to England by 
Wolseley Greville, your husband, who did not know that 
she was his own child.” 

“My God!” 

“Two days ago she was seen in Hyde Park sleeping on 
the grass, starving and alone.” 

Tears furrowed her cheeks. 

“Starving !” was all she said. 

This was more than the maudlin drunkenness. The news 
had touched her heart. As George refilled her glass she 
stopped him. 

“If only I had not been a coward,” she muttered. 

The corner in which they sat was away from the light. 

“It’s my story over again,” she said. “At least she can 
never be worse than I have been. I have been twice in 
prison — ugh! that St. Lazare — hospital, street and prison — 
a holy circle.” 

“Shall we tell her ?” whispered Pourgot. 

George shook his head. 


IN THE PROMENADE 


339 


Just then some one passed them on his way to the bar. 
He wore a wide awake hat and astrachan coat. Ethel 
pulled George’s sleeve. 

“It’s him!” 

Wolseley Greville was unconscious that he was watched. 
All three kept silence, looking. He tossed off a drink, 
quarrelled with a barmaid over the price and limped off to 
the exit. 

“I’ve got him this time,” said Ethel fiercely, and hurried 
after. 


CHAPTER L 


THE LAST DANCE 

G REVILLE had stepped into a cab and driven off 
before Ethel reached the street. There was no 
other at the door, so that she had the mortification 
of seeing him disappear round the corner. 

“Hullo, you after him too ?” said a voice at her elbow. 
Ethel turned to the speaker, another of the promenaders. 
“If it’s that fellow with a limp, yes! Curse him! He 
owes me a bit.” 

“He’s that sort, is he? Thanks for the tip. No Covent 
Garden for me.” 

“Was he going to take you there?” said Ethel eagerly. 
“We were to meet behind the orchestra at four. But if 
he’s that sort, it’s off.” 

“Get out,” said the commissionaire. “No loitering.” 
Ethel did not wait for more. She hurried away to her 
tawdry lodgings to plan it all out, thoroughly sobered by 
her husband’s latest infamy. The misery of her career had 
often been brought home to her; and, had it not been for 
this one settlement to make, she would long ago have killed 
herself. Now at last was the time for action. 

She counted up her money. Just thirty-three shillings, 
for of late she had had bad luck, and the oily landlord 
had recently raised his rent. After buying a ticket for the 
ball, she would have twelve and six left, enough to get drunk 
on, anyhow. 

It was two o’clock in the morning before Ethel arrived at 
Covent Garden, and the ball was in full swing. The revellers 
were making the most of it. 

As she went along past the bars to the ladies’ cloak-room, 
340 


THE LAST DANCE 


34i 


a friend in pink skirts did the “splits” across the passage, 
greatly to the admiration of two fat hiccoughing Hebrews. 

The air was thick with smoke, and her eyes smarted as 
she scanned the faces. No Greville yet. Perhaps he was 
dancing. 

The scene inside the ball-room was familiar, and yet 
its colour seemed never to have been so beautiful. For a 
moment her bitterness died out and she could only feast 
her eyes upon the dresses and swaying figures, every motion 
of which seemed to express the joy of life. They were 
at the Grand Chain figure in the Lancers, and one set on 
the right showed such a happy note of vermilion in that 
harmony. The four ladies had evidently dressed to suit 
each other, for though each costume was different, each 
had the same red, set off by the same green. One gipsy 
had red shoes and a red blouse, another was a Spanish 
dancer with red kerchief, a third was dominoed in red, while 
the fourth was passionate with flowers. All danced with 
the quiet dreamy movement which showed them English. 
Beside them a garish crew of Germans made the contrast 
that set off self-restraint. 

So crowded was the room that one could only see one’s 
neighbours. After the stewards had cleared the floor, 
Ethel continued her search. There were a hundred 
different faces, but never the face of Greville. Except 
for a few solitary innocents in costume, the men were in 
ordinary evening dress and that limp could never be dis- 
guised. 

At one moment she thought she saw him, but just then 
four noisy friends pounced upon her. She had to promise 
dances, and when at last she was free the man had gone. 
Still, four o'clock was the hour of the appointment. Per- 
haps he was coming late. Perhaps he was in the supper 
room. In the meantime she would dance, and then — and 
then 

When Ethel danced her partner had a lively time. She 
danced the bam dance that evening in a way that made 
the husbands send home post-haste such wives as remained. 


342 


HEARTS AND FACES 


The stewards inclined to interfere, but it was the last ball 
of the season. Then the music stopped for a moment; a 
pause, and then a rush for the position in front of the 
Judged box. 

It was the March Past. 

Ethel retired behind the orchestra. She did not dance 
again, staring hazily at the men around her. 

‘Take care, dear, you’re drinking too much,” said a 
warning voice behind her. It was the girl who had done 
the “splits” downstairs. 

“What time is it ?” asked Ethel huskily of some one. 

“Never mind,” he returned. “We’ve lots of time yet. 
And we’re taking you for breakfast.” 

She tried to rise, but sank back amid a shout of laughter. 

“Better stay where you are, dear,” said the voice in 
her ear. 

She strove to collect her thoughts. 

Four o’clock. It was the hour. 

“A cup of strong coffee,” she whispered to her friend. 
“I’m all right.” 

From that moment she would not speak. Gradually 
the crowd around her thinned till she was left alone. Min- 
utes passed as hours, and still Wolseley never came. What 
if he did come? Would she be able to rise? Would he 
wait for her ? 

He must come. It was fate that he should meet her 
again, face to face. 

What was that? Galop music! Then it must be the 
last dance. 

He had not come. 

With a fierce effort she pulled herself together and rose 
to her feet. She could walk still, though not very steadily, 
and carefully manoeuvred through the jostle of men and 
women to the open hall. Yes, the last dance, and the 
floor alive with whirling figures. Ethel leaned against a 
pillar, miserable with disappointment. He was not any- 
where. He never meant to come at all. Merely a blind 
to get rid of the girl that pestered him. 


THE LAST DANCE 


343 

Faster and faster the music. Faster and faster the 
dancers. 

Never before had there been such blaze, such swing, 
such life under that roof. 

It was the last dance of the last ball of the best season 
on record. 

Crash! The music wavered, the dancers slowed down 
— a shout of laughter, and they were at it again. Some 
one had let his partner down, and as the lady was fat no 
one was sorry. 

Ethel stood on tiptoe to see why they laughed, but at 
first to no purpose. Then a clear space, and a red face 
struggling for breath. 

It seared her. She herself must be like that soon. 

No, never! 

Three shillings left. 

She hurled the silver among the dancers and laughed 
as the coins rolled out of sight. 

She pushed to the centre of the floor, her hand pressed 
close to her breast. The hand was not empty, though the 
coins were gone. Dancers swept her aside, but only for a 
moment. 

“Ha-ha ! She would spoil their fun. 

There, right in the centre. 

A flash and a sparkle. As they huddled round her 
fallen figure, something dripped, dripped from her breast 
on to the floor. 


CHAPTER LI 


AN EPITAPH 

G EORGE did not hear of Ethel’s death till she was 
buried. He read of course in next day’s evening 
papers of the sensational suicide at Covent Gar- 
den, but no names were given, and he had not 
associated the two unfortunate women. 

Pourgot had- been thoroughly frightened by the meeting, 
and sounded the bugle of return. He agreed, however, 
to spend one more day in London as Claire was not yet 
well enough to travel. 

That night George invited them to dinner at P'rascati’s, 
making instinctively for the same table as that associated 
with Ravin’s farewell. The band was playing Elgar’s Salut 
d’ Amour as they entered, a melody which captivated Claire, 
but which George by this time found a trifle hackneyed. He 
was particularly silent that evening, but Pourgot was so 
absorbed in Claire, and Claire was so absorbed in herself, 
that at first they did not notice. 

George was more and more a fatalist. It seemed to him 
now natural that he should make friends only for a little, 
and that they should pass again out of his life. Other peo- 
ple were but stones flung into the surface of the slow-moving 
river of life, round whose brief entrance and exit rippled 
circles which in another moment passed into oblivion. 

Such was life in relation to other men and women. But, 
ah, how different was the life of energy in work! Here 
there was no baffling circle, no drift of aimless current. 
Every day was a step of progress, new knowledge and new 
power acquired. Love and friendship might in vain hold 
out enticements. They were the life-illusion, necessary 

344 


AN EPITAPH 


345 


only to keep the race alive. Mind was tied to matter by a 
fleshly bond, and so long as this earthly planet circled round 
the sun, and this sun was not absorbed in a still greater 
universe, so long would men and women dally with their 
amorous dreams. 

But now he seemed to feel in himself a greater spirit, 
carried not in red blood but in white-hot nerves, tingling 
with a spiritual synthesis. It might be that his pictures 
would perish in a universal conflagration, but surely this 
urgency of intellect was a mood of some imperishable mo- 
tion. He had at last caught the rhythm of everlasting life. 

Thirty-six years old to-day, and he was just at the thresh- 
old of creation. The four pictures he had in continental 
National Galleries were but a foretaste of what he knew 
he could produce. Was not Titian greatest in his painting 
when he died of the plague at the age of ninety-nine? Was 
not that last picture, The Crowning of Christ with Thorns , 
the greatest of the great Venetian’s masterpieces? Munich 
with all its artistic treasures held nothing more magnificent 
than this. It might be that some breath escaped from the 
spirit that had once moved the Venetian had floated down 
and taken flesh in his own body. 

At last the other two noticed George’s abstraction. Claire 
was the first to waken him. 

“You think too hard, Monsieur Grange,” she said, lifting 
his glass to his lips. “We are here on our last night, to 
amuse ourselves. But when you knit your brows and 
pucker up your forehead, you make yourself ugly. Now you 
are here as my cavalier, and I demand your smiles.” 

“I never knew that women wanted smiles,” said George, 
smiling all the same at her over his glass. “I thought they 
were satisfied with pretty dresses.” 

“If you don’t study women more,” she replied, putting 
on the airs of a mother, “you will never find any one to 
marry you. If you proposed to any woman just now, she 
would be too frightened to say yes, however much she liked 
you. Women are afraid of tombstones.” 

“Claire!” protested Pourgot. “This is unkind.” 


346 


HEARTS AND FACES 


“Not at all,” said George. “I deserve it, and I like 
home-truths. But/’ turning again to Claire, “you must 
know me well enough now to know that I would rather 
be a tombstone than a husband.” 

“Then I shall write the inscription,” she said. “Will 
this do?” 


‘Here Lies 

George Grange, Scotchman, 

Who died through not knowing that 
He had a kind heart. 

Possessed of many suits of clothes 
He was always a Gentleman, 

Never a Man. 

His only perfect actions were his Pictures ; 

For these there is no tombstone. 

Erected by his affectionate friend, Claire.’ ” 

George laughed, but in his heart were tears. 

Claire walked home with a dainty glove on his arm, the 
other glove on Pourgot’s. She was delighted with herself. 
Never had she been so brilliant. This skill in epigram 
was a new discovery. She must cultivate it, must inaugu- 
rate a salon, and gather round herself brilliant men like 
George, on whom she could sharpen her wits still further. 
She was as proud as the day on which she had her hair 
up for the first time. Oh, she would have the world at 
her feet some day! 

What a pleasant thing life was, with clever men to fetch 
and carry for beautiful women! 

An open carriage rolled past them, in which sat a lady 
with a toy poodle in her lap. 

“Oh, I must have a poodle, too,” she cried. “I shall 
never be happy without a poodle.” 

“You shall have one,” said George. “It will be a living 
token of my gratitude for your epitaph.” 

He was as good as his word, and Qaire went back to 
Paris, Diana returning from the chase. 


CHAPTER LII 


DRAMATIC JUSTICE 

G EORGE turned once more to work, painting stead- 
ily enough after a fashion, but never to his 
own content. Claire was the disturbing element. 
Her epitaph had rankled, and he wondered if 
he were worthy of any one’s respect. She was so pretty 
too, and had it not been for the indelible past, she might 

— well, she might And yet that was impossible. There 

was the memory of Ethel, and Claire seemed quite content 
with Pourgot. 

A week after they had left he noticed in his paper that 
Greville had sold his theatre, but no more was stated than 
that it would be run on the old lines, by a syndicate. 

When summer came George made up his mind to go 
North to Aberdeen and revisit his old haunts. Few would 
remember him now. George wanted to see with his now 
older eyes the work that had so much influenced his youth. 
Ah, and Balgownie could never be anything but beautiful. 

He arrived on a Saturday night, putting up at an hotel in 
Union Terrace. This part of the town had greatly changed, 
and the tall new granite edifices certainly looked impres- 
sive. Reid’s old lodging had been swept away in the 
improvements. Glancing at the papers, George saw that 
to-morrow was Communion Sunday, and that, owing to the 
number of communicants, there would be two services in 
the morning at Old Machar Cathedral. 

“That remains, anyhow,” he thought. 

It was natural that he should walk over to the Old Town 
next morning. He had lost all belief in religion, but he 
must see the old cathedral again. 

347 


348 


HEARTS AND FACES 


Many were on the same errand, but though he recognised 
a number of kent faces, none knew him; his hard, stern 
features retained so little that the casual observer could 
associate with the nervous stripling, a trifle round- 
shouldered, who had been a student seventeen years 
before. 

And yet he did not pass altogether unrecognised. An 
old, tallish man with a stoop and grey whiskers stopped 
him. 

“Are ye no Mr. George Grange ?” he said. 

“That is my name.” 

“I thought it would be you. I kent ye by yer likeness 
to yer mother’s father, Dr. Jamieson. His Uncle William’s 
wife was my grandfather’s second cousin, so that you and 
me’s connected like.” 

As he made this point, his eye brightened, the left side 
of his mouth curled up, and he plunged his forefinger into 
the air. 

“Ye paint pictures, I’m thinkin’,” continued this affable 
connexion. 

“Yes, I’m an artist.” 

“I saw yer name in the Free Press last week among a list 
of distinguished alumni of the University who had not 
graduated.” 

“So the University claims me now, does it ?” 

“Aye, and they ca’ ye ‘distinguished’ though ye niver 
took yer M.A. Still, ye might get yer LL.D. like, if ye 
were a fine painter, an’ painted the picture of the year at 
the Royal Academy in London. Ye could ca’ yerself 
Doctor then, though of course that’s no so great as Pro- 
fessor. Still, ye couldna expect that. Ye see, ye niver 
took yer M.A.” 

So he blithered on. Then he got inquisitive. 

“Ye’ll be stoppin’ wi’ yer stepfather, like?” 

“No, I’m at an hotel. But you must excuse me. I’ll be 
late for the Cathedral service. Good-bye.” 

When he came to the gate of King’s College George felt 
that he could not pass without having another look at 


DRAMATIC JUSTICE 349 

the old quadrangle. It was with the men that he had 
had no sympathy, not with those dear old stones. Ah, they 
were the same as ever, sleepy and weather-worn and sweet, 
with the lovely spider crown keeping its watch over the 
web of life beneath. 

The nave of the cathedral was filled with those who 
had come to celebrate the Sacrament, but the aisles were 
mostly vacant. George was ushered to a pew on the left 
far up, where he commanded the whole interior. As the 
diapason of the organ blended with the voices of the con- 
gregation, he felt the spirit of brotherhood brooding over 
the place. The foundations of belief might perish, but so 
long as men might gather together under such a roof the 
Church must remain. 

And yet he was alone. 

As the collection bags went round he felt in his pocket. 
He had a shilling and a sovereign. Putting back the 
shilling, he hesitated. The old wheeze came back to his 
mind about the elder and the man who had put in too 
much by mistake. Would he get credit in heaven for more 
than the shilling? Would he get credit for anything? 
Nevertheless, when the bag came round he put in the 
sovereign. 

“Damn the Recording Angel !” he said to himself. 

As he came out after the first service he turned to the 
little strip behind the cathedral, where one could look over 
to Seaton. He lit a cigarette as he did so, to the horror 
of an old woman beside him. 

“Man/’ she said, “do ye not know ye’re foulin’ the 
Lord’s air on the Sabbath ?” 

The place was as peaceful as ever, marked here and there 
by gravestones, some against the wall. As he read over 
the inscriptions, he noticed that one grave was without 
stone or rail. The bed was covered with moss, and there 
were forget-me-nots and evergreen. His memory sped to 
that day eighteen years ago, when he had stood there with 
Reid. Could that be Reid’s grave? 

Some one else was looking at the grave, a thick-set, 


350 


HEARTS AND FACES 


heavy-browed man who — yes, who must be Browser. 
Although they had never spoken to each other before, 
they remembered each other’s faces, and fell into conver- 
sation. 

“Do you know whose grave this is ?” asked George. 

“That was a patient of mine, before I got my appoint- 
ment. Reid was his name — an artist. Careless of his 
health. Caught a chill and died. Curious grave, isn’t it? 
Asked me to arrange it for him like this. Are you walking 
back?” 

They stepped along together, and George learned among 
other things that Browser was now Professor of Anatomy 
at a Midland University. He had kept up his connexion 
with Aberdeen, and was doing some special research with 
one of the Professors here at Marischal College. Then they 
got on to old times. 

“I remember the football match in which you broke your 
collar-bone,” said George. 

“Ah, yes, that was the turning point in my life. Gave 
up fooling about and set to work. What a change!” 

“Do you remember Wolseley Greville? I saw him in 
London two months ago.” 

“Did you?” said Browser, slowing down and staring at 
George. “Ah, that is possible.” 

“How, why, have you heard anything of him since 
then ?” 

“Yes, that is to say, a little. Tell me where you saw 
him.” 

George briefly described the passing glimpse in the music 
hall. 

“That must have been before the trouble with the police. 
He changed his name and went on tour with some pro- 
vincial company, merely as an actor with a small part. Not 
that he could act, but he must have had some hold over 
the manager. Played in town halls and that sort of place, 
not regular theatres. Company was at Laurencekirk when 
the trouble began. Must have been rather pathetic. Man- 
ager absconded with the receipts, and the company was 


DRAMATIC JUSTICE 351 

left stranded. Greville had come to the end of his re- 
sources and thought he might find some of his old friends 
in Aberdeen. Had no money to pay his train fare, so 
started to tramp it. A man in active health could have 
done it with ease, but you know the life that Greville led. 
Must have slept several nights in the wet. When at last 
he reached Aberdeen he was so exhausted by exposure and 
privation that he went mad, and died next day In the work- 
house infirmary. He had tried to blackmail me when I 
got my appointment, so I put detectives on him. They 
told me the story.” 

“So he is dead!” exclaimed George. “Well, I can’t say 
I am sorry. He was such a blackguard.” 

Browser did not respond. They had passed up the Gal- 
lowgate, stopping for a moment at George’s wish to look 
in at Macgillivray’s Court, where he and Adam Grant had 
once read the Alcestis together. 

“Better take care,” said Browser. “There’s an epidemic 
of typhoid fever here just now.” 

At last they reached Marischal College. 

“Come in,” said Browser. “I have the run of the place. 
I want to show you something.” 

Browser pointed out the extensions that had recently been 
made, and then they walked to where he was working. 

“You don’t mind the smell, I hope. You were at King’s 
yourself, weren’t you ?” he said, as they went in. 

“Yes,” said George, “but of course an artist always 
has to learn anatomy. I know my Arthur Thomson off 
by heart.” 

They turned to a small room, of which Browser had the 
key, heavy with odour. In it were tables on which could 
be seen the outlines of three bodies covered with cloths. 

“All in the interests of science,” said the medical, taking 
off his coat and hat and fetching a case with an array of 
knives. 

“Just wait till I wash my hands,” he said. “Won’t be 
a minute. You can smoke.” 

The odour of mortality is not pleasant. 


352 


HEARTS AND FACES 


Browser carefully dried his hands and drew back the 
cloth from the centre figure. 

“Look here,” he said, “this is the one I’m working on.” 

“Wolseley Greville ! Good God !” 

“Yes, we get our bodies from the workhouse. Curious 
that one who so degraded his University should come to 
lie on its dissecting tables. The only occasion on which 
his presence has been of service. A most interesting body.” 



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